Author's notes:

What if Sherlock used some of that brutal honesty he displayed in 'His Last Vow' to make John realize the true nature of their relationship? I know this 'friends to lovers' -thing has been done to death, but when inspiration hits, what can I do but obey! This story was heavily inspired by Amber Run's beautiful song "I Found" ( watch?v=Yj6V_a1-EUA). I've listed all the songs I used as a writing soundtrack in the Author's notes of the last chapter.

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Future Tense

by J. Baillier

Chapter 1/3

"You've got to be kidding me."

"I assure you that I'm not very amused either," Sherlock replies dryly when John walks into his room at the Royal Edinburgh Hospital.

"Care to explain the text, then? John digs his phone out of his coat pocket. "'EDINBURGH. URGENT. NEED HELP BREAKING OUT. BRING MY SWEATPANTS. SH'"

"I thought I managed to concisely convey the situation."

"I thought you'd been kidnapped by terrorists!"

Sherlock quirks his eyebrows. "And what sort of terrorists might these be?"

"I don't know! Maybe they wanted to swap their kilts for sweatpants!"

Sherlock blinks. And coughs, causing the plastic container next to his hospital bed to gurgle.

John puts down the plastic bag he's carrying. "Pleural drain? What did you do this time? This why you can't fly home, then?"

Sherlock nods. "Stepped into a rabbit hole on a field and fell onto some rocks. They're removing the tube today. British Airways tells me I can't fly with a recent history of pneumothorax."

"Why couldn't you take the train, then, if you're being released?"

"This thing," Sherlock pulls the blanket away from his right leg, revealing a cast reaching from his heels to the upper part of his thigh,"Makes it somewhat challenging to travel in anything but a car. I'm being released into your care so no need to actually break out of here, after all."

"So you fell down a rabbit hole?"

"Caught my leg in one and fell. Fractured tibia. Cracked my ribs on some rocks."

"Couldn't Mycroft sort this out? Mary has been having early contractions this week. I should be there, not driving you around the country."

"Mycroft would not have appreciated the reason I was here. As a matter of fact, he explicitly warned me off from coming here. Some pet project of his. He doesn't seem to care if people connected to it are disappearing."

"What about an ambulance transfer to St Barts, then?"

"As I said, I am being released. And Mycroft monitors the emergency services, as you must know by now."

John sighs resignedly. "I guess the sweatpants are for that clunky thing, then?" He points at the cast. "Can't fit it into your usual tight trousers?"

"My trousers are not tight, they're tailored."

"Whatever."

John packs Sherlock into the rental Vauxhall. His long legs barely fit across the backseat - due to the cast he has stretch across the back seat instead of sitting normally. They set off towards northern England.

"You couldn't have at least answered you phone when I tried to call!" John can't keep venom out of his tone.

"I did answer the phone."

"Yeah, but only after I'd already flown in. I'd have appreciated a proper explanation of the situation before I decided whether to blow off work and leave Mary to fend for herself."

"I don't see how wasting time explaining things to you would have changed said situation."

"I have a life now, Sherlock!"

"Yes, as I am well aware."

"A life that includes other things besides dragging your hide out of trouble."

"None of those other things take precedence over me."

John honks the horn as someone cuts in front of him in a roundabout. "Wankers."

"If they did, you wouldn't be here," Sherlock muses.

"It's a bit not good taking people for granted, Sherlock."

"I don't take _people_, for granted," Sherlock replies, articulating the word 'people' in his usual condescending way. "But I know I can rely on you being a constant in my life."

John doesn't say anything.

"I am your perfect danger-payoff ratio. Not Mary, not Sholto, not any of those vapid girlfriends you've circulated. Me."

"I. Am. Not. Gay." John reminds him between gritted teeth.

"Oh please. That's irrelevant. Like a murderer saying that he isn't left-handed. Labels, John. Just labels. They don't begin to cover the complexity of you as a human being."

"Is that a compliment?"

"What does it matter?"

John's mouth is an angry line.

"It doesn't matter what sort of archane rituals you use to bind yourself to your convenient little bourgeois front. This thing we have will still exist. Even if I'm dead, this thing will still have a mind of its own. You felt it, I know you did. I heard what you said at the graveyard."

"You really need to keep reminding me of that? Sometimes I really think I might hate you."

"And that is precisely why you can't live without me. Love is nice, but love mixed with more vile, unspeakable things is better."

"What about the fact that I don't think I want to have sex with you?"

"May I remind you what you've been telling me about relationships for years? 'There has to be more than sex'. For you, sex requires emotional connection. Sex is, in a way, just that, a connection. You can have sex with anyone. What we have, you can only have with me. Stop kidding yourself, John. We've been having sex from the second we met."

"Says the virgin."

This shuts Sherlock up for at least an hour.