[Disclaimer: the characters and the series on which this work is based are the property of their respective owners. This is just writing practice, and let's be honest, quite a bit of self-indulging. This is a direct sequel to "Aftermath", and originally a part of it, but I felt that this chapter didn't quite belong with it, and that the first story stands better on its own. Still, I didn't want to simply dispose of this bit of the story and leave it unwritten, since that particular plot bunny was insistently chewing on my brain with no signs of letting go, so here we are.]
The room was dark when John woke up. A faint echo of street noises was filtering through the closed windows. The half-drawn curtains let through remnants of the vague, diffuse light of the night-time city. The afternoon warmth had fled from the apartment, yet John didn't feel cold. As he slowly emerged from the pleasant state of drowsiness that followed a deep, repairing sleep, he grew very conscious of his makeshift "blanket". Sherlock hadn't moved an inch, holding on to him like a child, with John's arms loosely wrapped around him. The doctor sighed quietly, looking down at his friend, a dark shape barely outlined in the shadows. Holmes stirred.
"You're moving," he grumbled. "Why are you moving? Keep still. I'm trying to sleep."
"Just trying, then?" John replied with a hint of sarcasm. "I merely sighed, Sherlock, it couldn't possibly have woken you up. If you actually felt it, then you were already awake."
Holmes expressed his disagreement with an annoyed grunt, and pretended to fall asleep again, to drive his point home. After a few moments, John decided it was high time to relocate.
"Come on, Sherlock," he said, gently shaking his friend's shoulder. "If you're going to sleep, you should lie down properly. I'll fetch you a blanket and a pillow."
But Holmes didn't show any intention of letting him go. If anything, John was sure he felt Sherlock's grip tighten.
"Why bother?" Holmes asked in a low, lazy voice. "I'm already comfortable. Or I would be if you stopped talking."
Coming from Sherlock, there could be no double-entendre. Of course there couldn't be. Nevertheless, John suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable, especially because he had been quite snug himself until this very moment. But he was now anxious to disentangle himself from Sherlock, and maybe flee to another room, where he could glumly ponder the implications of what he was experiencing.
"Now you're just doing it on purpose," Holmes complained. "Could you please be quiet?"
"I haven't said anything," John snapped.
"No, but your heart rate is intolerably high. You're making more noise than a percussion division.."
Marvelous. Heart bloody racing. Well done, Watson. Way to go.
Furious with himself, John tried to push Sherlock away.
"All the more reason to go sleep elsewhere," he flared. "Or just stay here, and let me go."
John's eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, but it was still difficult to make out anything beyond basic shapes. He could not see Sherlock's expression. But when the man shifted, sitting up and finally letting go of him, John could feel his sharp gaze bore into his own. He couldn't help looking away, and cursed himself for it.
"Interesting," Holmes said eventually, in a casual, analytical tone, as if he were working on a case. His voice was frighteningly close, and the proximity sent a shiver down John's spine. He was desperate to get up, to get out, but he couldn't move a limb. Total meltdown, however, was not achieved until he felt a faint brush of fingers on his cheek, followed immediately by the slightest touch of lips against his.
John froze like a deer in the headlight, eyes wide, heart pounding, stunned silly by panic. He couldn't articulate a word, or even make a sound. For an instant, he forgot to breathe, as his brain laboriously shifted back into gear and processed the situation.
"Very interesting," Sherlock said in a low murmur as he withdrew. The sound of his voice jolted John back into speech.
"Why… did you do that?" he managed, fighting hard to keep his voice level.
"I'm testing a theory," Holmes replied matter of factly, sounding completely unfazed, his face still just a few inches from John's.
"A theory," the doctor said in a flat tone, his momentary panic attack being swiftly washed away by the rising tide of his temper.
"Yes," Sherlock went on. "A new one, in fact. It turns out I was actually wrong the first time around, which is a surprisingly fascinating experience, I find."
"Sherlock, what are you - ?"
"You're always concerned that "people might talk", yet you didn't mind sleeping in this position. Right until I pointed it out, which is when your heart rate went up."
There was something strange in the way he spoke, a hint of triumph and urgency, and something else that John couldn't pinpoint.
"You've been awake for a while before I spoke up," Sherlock went on, as if he were going through a list of evidence. "Yet you didn't even try to move away. Nor did you just now."
"Of course I didn't move away, you idiot!" John fired back. "I wasn't expecting - !"
"Indeed," Holmes said quietly. "You weren't."
"I don't see where you're going with this," John said, exasperated. He did see. Only too well. And he didn't want it, any of it. Why the hell did he have to be confronted with this now?
He was about to get up from the couch when a hand gently caught his wrist.
"For someone who is always complaining about how I don't pay enough attention to other people's feelings," Sherlock remarked calmly, "you can be quite inconsiderate yourself."
"Really?" John replied, his tone a mixture of sarcasm and bitterness. "Do explain, Sherlock, because I don't understand. You're the one who is currently dissecting me, and shoving your observations in my face, whether I want it or not. This is all about the game to you, isn't it? About entertaining that fabulous brain of yours. The actual deduction doesn't matter, as long as it's the right one."
"I know you don't expect me to care. And you're right, I usually don't."
John's angry comeback got stuck in his throat as Sherlock squeezed his wrist.
"I had to be certain. I didn't dare to believe that I had been wrong about you all this time, so I had to be certain."
John stared at his knees without seeing them, grateful for the darkness as his ears burned with an irrepressible blush. His thoughts were a blur of conflicting emotions, flashes and bits of remembered conversations. In this confusion of mental noise, the feel of those long, thin fingers around his wrist was the only tangible reality.
"What is your conclusion, then?" John finally asked, barely managing to wring the words out.
"Do you need me to say it?" came the soft reply.
"No. Don't." John answered sharply before he could stop himself. He regretted it immediately. He could feel the hurt expression that fleetingly veiled Sherlock's eyes. He felt the deep, cold bite of his own harshness as his friend's hand loosened its grip on his wrist, and let it go. Time seemed to slow down almost to a halt while the doctor's mind raced. Right then and there, he knew that Sherlock would never open up again. To anyone. And John would never forgive himself.
He caught Sherlock's hand, and held it tight.
"Sherlock, I can't," John said hesitantly after an awkward silence, "I'm sorry, I can't deal with this. Not now. This is all so- God, you were dead. And now you're - you're…"
He turned to Sherlock, and found his eyes in the dark.
"What are you saying, exactly? What do you want?"
"I'm not entirely sure," Holmes ventured with a hint of self-mockery. "I have always believed that I would never- I couldn't stand anyone's company. Being on my own was a lot less effort. But you…"
Sherlock looked away. When he spoke again, his voice was surprisingly gentle.
"You were so absurdly loyal, right from the start. And so willing to be impressed, I hardly needed to try. You became another habit, a part of who I am. I even stopped noticing when you went out. In my mind - In my mind, you were always present."
Those last words were hardly audible, and John wondered for a moment if he had heard right.
"And no matter how hard I tried to drive you away," Sherlock went on in a half-whisper, struggling with every word, "you always came back, like a faithful dog. It didn't matter what I did, how many times I disappointed you, or insulted you. You were always – You would always – And now, whenever there is danger, I fear for your life, and it clouds my judgment."
He sounded utterly defeated, as if capitulating after having fought a long, losing battle. John understood all too well how hard it must have been for him to admit, or even to realize this, whatever it was.
"What happened, Sherlock?" he asked eventually, a trace of inexplicable sadness in his voice. "'Not much cop, this caring lark', wasn't that what you said? What happened to you?"
"The most absurd thing," Holmes replied with a wan smile, turning back to Watson. "I was facing death, and the only thing on my mind at the time was that you would never know, that you would never suspect how much you mattered to me."
He leaned towards the doctor, and whispered in his ear, a few simple words John had been dreading. Yet, a gentle warmth budded and bloomed in his chest as those words sank in, and he smiled despite himself. He couldn't bring himself to say anything. Conflicting feelings were still at war within him, and he could not predict an outcome. Not yet.
John closed his eyes, and simply squeezed Sherlock's hand in reply.
For now, it was enough.
[Author's note: I was less focused on this one, and the writing process was spread over several weeks, and it shows, I'm afraid. The ending is a bit unsatisfying, but I guess that goes rather well with the state of affairs between the characters at this time. I'm tempted to write a proper resolution, but just as my take on Watson, I am struggling with my own feelings concerning the pair, and I'm not sure where I want them to go from here. Any input would be very welcome, as well as any criticism concerning the writing itself. Thanks for reading! ]