Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.
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From Here On Out
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When John and Mary got home on the night of Sherlock's return, the doctor wordlessly went upstairs and shut himself in the bathroom. He had clenched his hands into fists during the entire cab ride, and his fingers began to smart. Slowly, he stretched them out, trying to take a deep breath, trying to calm down. He felt far too agitated though, so he paced back and forth, unseeingly and feeling numb. His stomach rolled unpleasantly, and the nausea he was feeling was only partly due to the fact that he had not eaten anything except for a small plate of starters that night.
What a night. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose; he felt flushed, but he could not stop to take off his coat, he needed to keep moving if he did not want to find himself punching the wall.
Sherlock was alive. The realization sent goosebumps down his spine and at the same time, let his anger flare up again. The nerve! Of course he was glad, deep down, that he had not actually lost his friend, more than glad- but he had yet to decide whether they still were friends.
A friend did not do this to you, a friend did not let you go through hell and then, two years later, bounced back into your life with a fake French accent and absolutely no comprehension of the situation at hand. Well, to be fair, Sherlock would, because he actually was thinking differently when it came to emotions. Oh, great, he was already beginning to defend that idiot!
No, John thought stubbornly, even Sherlock could have figured out just how much faking his own death must have affected his friends. No one could be that stupid. And he had cried, hadn't he, that day on the roof? He had shown emotions himself, so there. John snorted, stopping for a moment and folding his arms in front of his chest: how was he going to forgive something like that?
A tentative knock on the door pulled him out of his silent ranting.
"Are you going to be in there much longer?" Mary asked.
"Why?"
"I'm whipping us up some scrambled eggs, I'm starving."
"Not for me, thank you." John did neither feel like eating nor like Mary's company right then; he wanted to be alone with his anger.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!"
"Okay."
He listened to her steps on the stairs, sagging all of a sudden: he was being unfair to Mary, she had not done anything. On the contrary, she had come into a his life at an utterly low point and still wanted to be with him. She had helped him, had been patient with him on days on which he barely seemed to function. He had begun pondering whether he should propose to her; he never wanted to be lonely again, and marriage had seemed a suitable means to pursue that goal.
Now he looked into the mirror and barely recognized himself: what had he been thinking? Marriage was no guarantee for happiness, after all, or fulfillment. One could be lonely nevertheless. And that bloody moustache had to go, that was clear as day. Finally shedding his jacket and scarf, John took another deep breath, then reached for the shaving cream.
Mary was already in bed when John eventually left the bathroom.
"Oh, good, I'd like to brush my-" She broke off, staring at his face: "You shaved it off."
"Yeah." He fidgeted. "Didn't seem to work."
"You shaved it off because Sherlock didn't like it."
"No, I shaved it off because I didn't like it," John said, brusquely.
Mary regarded him with a curious expression; clearly, she would have liked to say more, but probably did not want provoke a fight. They had fought too much the past weeks already.
John exhaled audibly: "I'm sorry. Let's just go to bed."
He reached for Mary when she crawled under the covers a few minutes later, holding her close, but it did not calm him down as it usually did. He was still upset, upset and confused. He half-listened to Mary's quiet breathing as she fell asleep, remaining wide awake himself. Sherlock was alive. His heart gave a tentatively excited flutter at the thought, even though his head told it to sod off.
The entire following day, John felt as though he was sleepwalking. The events of the previous night seemed surreal, only the absence of his moustache and his slightly bruised forehead reminded him that it had indeed happened. He had no idea how to proceed; part of him wanted to punish Sherlock for what he did, to stay away from him for the time being, just to show him that he, John, did not need him. Another part of him however wanted to leave work and go to Baker Street immediately, see for himself that his friend was alive, be near him. He had missed him so terribly, had wished to get him back, and now that this had been granted, impossible as it might be, his pride prevented him from doing so.
He could barely sit still and listen to his patients that day, and he had to restrain himself from snapping at Mary when she asked him whether he was all right for the third time.
That evening, after the surgery had closed and Mary had left to meet up with a friend, he sat in his office unmovingly for an unaccounted amount of time, because he knew that if he got up and left, he would head straight for Baker Street, which he did not want. He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers and closed his eyes for a moment, cursing Sherlock Holmes and the way he was able to manipulate people.
Ten minutes later, John boarded a train on the Jubilee line.
Sherlock did not understand what had gone wrong. Or rather, he did understand what had gone wrong, but not how it had come to that. He had surprised John, who was about to have dinner with this woman called Mary Morstan (speaking of surprises), but his friend had not appreciated Sherlock's take on humour or his attempt to lighten the mood later on at all. He had been furious instead, physically attacking the detective at one point. Sherlock's nose and lip were still tender to the touch, and his back- he had had a rather difficult time to hide his discomfort when Mycroft had called round this morning. He had taken painkillers, certainly, even though they had done little to ease the lingering overall ache in his body so far.
John's attack had aggravated the wounds on his back and his chest, and he had not wanted his brother to notice it; when it came to matters such as this, Mycroft turned from his usually rather detached demeanour to being what Sherlock considered annoyingly fussy in less than a second (a fact which might have surprised The Woman).
Sherlock sat down on the sofa with his violin on his lap; he had played a little earlier, but his shoulders did not thank him, so he had had to stop. So far, his return had turned out rather different from how he had planned it, which was rather peculiar. The only person who had shown a completely positive reaction was, unsurprisingly so, Molly Hooper. The others' reactions had either been mixed (and he still had not recovered from being hugged by Grant) or entirely negative, as was the case concerning John.
Sherlock had been disconcerted by discovering that a) John was dating someone, and b) how much of a shock it was to see his friend in person. The moment John had looked up and recognized him, a jolt had gone through his body, entirely unanticipated and also rather impedimental right then; maybe it had contributed to his rather poor performance. He just had not been able to find the right words, apparently, otherwise John would at least have listened to him without losing it so quickly. And now Sherlock had the dreadful feeling that he had irrevocably forfeit his one chance to make amends just because he had wrongly assumed that John would immediately want to work with him again.
Well. If he was completely honest with himself, he should have known it was not going to be easy, and that John would be hurt. He just had not expected for it to be this bad. What he had read in the doctor's eyes and the new lines on his face once John had realized who the strange waiter really was had exceeded anything Sherlock could have imagined. He did not know how to deal with it, so he tried to keep the mood light. Which had been a tremendous mistake, as it turned out.
He looked around the living room: there had been times during the two years of his absence when he had dreamed of this room, of being home again. Those dreams had albeit always included John, and it seemed that he was never going to have that again.
He could hear Mycroft's voice in his head: I told you, Sherlock, it doesn't do to get involved. Sherlock swore at his (admittedly absent) brother, but that did not prevent him from recalling a quote which Mycroft had used, who knew from where and probably wildly out of context at that, the last time he berated Sherlock about emotions and what they could do to a person: It strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room. That had been while they were working out how to fake his suicide, and his brother had probably been under the impression that he was being funny. How wrong he had been: it had not been funny then and it was not funny now. Well, Sherlock thought bitterly, the inability to judge other people's reactions seemed to run in the family.
Staring into the cold fireplace, he hunched in on himself as far as his injuries allowed, and felt the emptiness in the room descend on him.
John had left Baker Street Station and headed to 221B, but had lingered on the pavement for a few seconds, then turned back and walked away. He liked to have difficult matters thought through before facing them, and he was still way too mad, he was not going to be able to stay calm. So he went for a walk instead, allowing the nippy night air to cool him off somewhat.
During the following week, John barely talked. Mary watched him with concern, but whenever she tried to steer what little conversation they had around to Sherlock, John would set his jaw, muscles working furiously, and refuse to say anything to it. So she left it at that and him in peace, even though it made her uneasy. She briefly considered talking to Sherlock herself, but that probably would make everything worse. She did not like to see John so unhappy, especially since this was a kind of unhappiness she had not yet encountered when it concerned him. He had been inconsolable, grieving, suffering when they had first met, but that had been different.
This kind of unhappiness was born out of the feeling of having been betrayed by someone who, for two whole years, had been all but sacrosanct. This unexpected fall from grace hurt John in a way that was barely comprehensible, and hard to watch. It was also something he wanted to go through alone, apparently, very unlike before.
He had been grateful when Mary had entered his life, maybe also because he had been over the worst back then, but he had accepted her support nevertheless. Now, he was pushing her away. She worried about that, since they had had a dreadfully serious fight not long ago; the dinner at the Landmark was meant as a means of reparation. What a peculiar twist of fate that it had been interrupted by the man they had been fighting about.
It took a whole week for John to realize that he would not get anywhere by his furious brooding; he was going in circles. His thoughts were with Sherlock whether he wanted it or not, in every waking hour and every night in his dreams.
Which was why, eight days after he had broken off the first attempt, he found himself exiting Baker Street station once more, swiftly walking on this time until he came to a halt in front of 221B. He took a deep breath and let himself in as quietly as he could; he did not want to be stopped by Mrs Hudson. There were no lights on in her flat however, she seemed to have gone out.
Slowly, John climbed the stairs; all was quiet, but he had seen lights in 221B. The living room was empty; Sherlock was sitting in front of his microscope in the kitchen. He turned around to see who had come to visit, then paused, surprised: "John."
John put the bottle of whiskey he had brought on the table and inclined his head in confirmation: "Me."
All of a sudden, Sherlock seemed nervous, a rare occurance. He rubbed his hands on his thighs: "I didn't think you'd take my calls, so..." He broke off.
"I'm still mad at you," John said while he took off his coat, "just so we're clear."
"I know."
"I doubt that." He could feel his anger under the surface, but he needed to remain calm in order to get through this evening. It was too familiar, deceitfully so: Sherlock and his microscope, a clutter of things spread on the table, a half-drunk mug of tea in the midst of it. But if John had learned anything from his friend, it was to observe. Thus, he did not only see the slight tremor in Sherlock's hands or that he had obviously had his sleeves rolled up but had pulled them down when he had heard someone approaching; the buttons were not closed because he did not have the time to do so.
On the whole, Sherlock seemed less... invulnerable than at the restaurant, which was probably due to the fact that he did not have the chance to prepare himself for this encounter. And still, it did not feel as though the terms were equal this time. Now that John was able to have a proper look at Sherlock, he noticed other things too: that he held himself rather stiffly as he got up to get glasses for example, which he only did to hide his confusion.
John sat down: "Really, Sherlock. I doubt that you even begin to understand how this feels for me. You made me watch your death. I'll never be able to forget those moments, no matter how hard I try. You made me watch it, made me see your body-" His voice nearly gave out for a moment, so he cleared he throat: "Those two years were worse than anything else I've ever experienced, and then you come back like that, making a joke out of it, acting as though nothing of consequence had happened! I spent months blaming myself that I hadn't seen it coming, that I couldn't prevent it. I had nightmares about you standing on the roof, about how scary it must have been! I missed you so much I woke up weeping! And on top of it all, you tell me that I couldn't know about it, but half the population of London did!"
Sherlock stood frozen to the spot, glasses in his hands. He blinked and avoided John's gaze: "I'm sorry," he said, slowly, "you are right. I don't know how it feels for you. I never cared for other people's feelings, as you are aware." His voice was unusally quiet. "You did however make it very clear last week that I was in the wrong."
"Because I hit you."
"No." Sherlock finally met his gaze. "Because of how you looked at me, and how you looked when you did not come in the following evening."
John was taken aback: "You saw me?"
"Yes, I saw you. And it made me realize..." he seemed momentarily lost for words. "It showed me just how much I hurt you."
John blinked, since his eyes had begun to water. "Will you get those glasses over here already," he said gruffly, wiping his eyes.
Sherlock regarded the whiskey, an eighteen year old Bowmore, suspiciously as he set the glasses down, but John shook his head: "I just spent far too much money on this one, so I don't want to hear any complaints."
They emptied their first glass in silence.
"Why did you do it?" John asked softly. "And this time, I mean the reason for faking your death." Sherlock was standing next to him, and John caught a whiff of his scent, enough to make him light-headed for some reason. God, he missed him.
Sherlock hesitated: "He threatened someone. Moriarty, he... you know how he was. He had planned ahead. He gave me no choice."
John gave a bitter laugh: "Seriously, it was all part of that stupid game? Who did he threaten?"
"You. Along with Mrs Hudson and Lestrade."
"Right."
"No, seriously. He'd have had you all killed if his people had not seen me jump. And since he shot himself, he had no way to call his snipers back."
John stared at him: "Okay," he eventually said. "Okay. That's what you should have started with." His hand was shaking as he refilled their glasses.
"I am sorry, John," Sherlock said after the second one. He usually hardly ever drank, but John seemed determined to make progress with that whiskey, so he went along, even though he was feeling rather light-headed already. It was the least he could do. "I hope you can forgive me one day."
John ran his hand over his eyes wearily, regarding him; they had retreated to the living room and were now sitting in their armchairs. Which had never stopped to be their armchairs.
"A few more glasses, and I actually might," he said.
"I'm warming to this," Sherlock muttered after the fourth glass. "Tastes less like medicine the more one drinks."
"It better."
They fell silent again; downstairs, the door creaked.
"Hudders's back," Sherlock provided.
"She's surprisingly strong, you know."
"I can imagine."
"You can? Oh yeah, you can. Florida, I know."
"She berated me," Sherlock told him, voice slightly slurred, "when I came back. Screamed her lungs out, then wouldn't stop kissing me, then told me off."
"She's the best."
"Yeah."
After another moment of silence, John leaned forward in his chair but lost his balance and nearly slid off the seat; he clumsily extended one hand and supported himself on Sherlock's knee, and their eyes met at the same moment. Something like a jolt went through John, and he quickly drew his hand back, even though Sherlock muttered something that sounded like "I don't mind."
John's thoughts were reeling; he had been attracted to Sherlock from the beginning, but he had always been able to repress it, even though it had been difficult at times. Yet now his heart was beating like a drum, especially since Sherlock seemed so... compliant.
His stomach plummeted unpleasantly however when Sherlock asked: "How did you meet Mary?" in a soft voice.
"At work. She's a nurse."
"That's what I deduced."
"Of course you did. But I don't want to talk about Mary now."
"Then what do you want to talk about."
Slowly, John slid forward again until he sat on the edge of the chair's seat, then he reached out and took the hem of Sherlock's left sleeve, undoing the button which Sherlock had surreptitiously closed earlier. The detective tried to pull away, but John would not let him. Gently but steadily, he rolled up the sleeve a little, revealing heavily scabbed scars which circled Sherlock's wrist.
The doctor had to swallow a few times before he could speak: "I imagine the right one looks the same?"
Sherlock avoided his gaze, inwardly cursing the whiskey; he would have needed his full mental capacities for this, but as it was, he could barely think. The delicate pressure of John's fingers on his skin was doing something to him, accelerating his heart, overriding his brain.
"Sherlock?" John prompted now. Sherlock sighed; there seemed no point in denying it.
"Yes."
John closed his eyes ever so briefly, obviously fighting to keep his composure; he was breathing heavily through his nose when he spoke again, his voice sounding choked: "What happened, Sherlock."
It was astounding how sobering some issues could be. Or maybe John was simply better at drinking.
"It's not as bad as it looks," Sherlock said, evasively.
"That's not the answer to my question."
Sherlock thought of Serbia, of the horrible sensation one experienced when one knew one had been caught. Of the way his legs had given out under him at one point.
It was difficult to find any words to put it in, especially now that John, probably unaware that he was doing so, gently stroked the soft skin of Sherlock's inner wrist with his thumb, seeking to appease or encourage or both.
"There was torture," Sherlock eventually said with a heavy tongue; his head was too fuzzy, he shouldn't have drunk so much. "They wanted information. But I got out."
John made a sound which might have been a sob. "When?" he whispered.
"A fortnight ago."
The pressure on his wrist increased while John cursed under his breath and made that sobbing sound again. "Jesus," he muttered, "Jesus."
Sherlock thought he ought to comfort him: "It's not as bad as it looks," he repeated, because he had no idea what else to say. "It's healing."
"Does the rest of you look like this as well?" John asked once he had his voice back under control.
"Not all of it."
For a long moment, they only looked at each other, at a loss of what to say. Then, John carefully readjusted the shirt sleeve, sliding his fingers over the detective's hand afterwards and closing them around Sherlock's: "Why can't anything just be easy for once?" he asked.
Sherlock looked at their joined hands and wished he had an answer to that. Thinking properly was impossible right then, however, with John being so close, with John touching him. He closed his eyes, did not realize he was beginning to shake. But then John took his other hand as well, and Sherlock let him, allowed the other to pull him forward.
The movement was hesitant, tentative, yet Sherlock couldn't have stopped it for the life of him. He opened his eyes and saw John's dear face, the face he had conjured up whenever he had felt too far from home, and with the face came a new sensation which washed over him: craving. He shuddered as he shifted further forward of his own account.
Staggering a little, they got to their feet, coming to stand closely in front of each other, a fusion of scents and body heat and breaths. John finally let go of Sherlock's left hand, touched the taller man's cheek with a motion which is half tender, half timid. "My God, you're beautiful," he whispered, and somehow, it did not make Sherlock cringe but rather waiting for more. He wanted to indulge himself in this, he had been stupid in denying his feelings for John back when they had still been living together. He had had to die and go through hell in order to see just how tremendously stupid he had been.
John was trembling as well now, and Sherlock, through the haze of alcohol and longing and despair because of course even this could not be easy, not when there was a third party in the background, could see nothing but affection in the other's eyes and knew that he had been forgiven, just like that. This was the old John, the one who stood by Sherlock no matter what he did. The one whom he was craving to be with.
"I want you," Sherlock managed.
John could not stop himself from gasping. He would never, not in a million years, have expected to ever hear Sherlock saying that, no matter how often he had tried to imagine it.
Sherlock cleared his throat:"But it's too late, isn't it." It nearly physically hurt the detective to say that, and he sounded choked.
"No," John shook his head, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face, "no, it's not."
"But Mary-"
"She's a good person, but she's... not you."
"But you're together. Shouldn't you-"
"I can't." John's breath hitched as he continued, his fingers stroking Sherlock's cheek: "Not now," he said softly, "not when I can have you back. Losing you was... excruciating. I don't know how I'm still alive. But I know I'll break if I can't have this. I love you, Sherlock."
Sherlock's head was spinning as he leaned forward, as their noses touched, their lips; being so near John was intoxicating, much more so than the whiskey.
"You can have all of me," he murmured, and John, giving a watery chuckle, kissed him. It was gentle and overwhelming, tender yet firm, and Sherlock found himself kissing back, mesmerized by the notion that John wanted him as well after all he had done, that John's heart was beating as fast as his own, that it was John whom he was sharing this with.
When they pulled back, Sherlock could hear the blood rushing in his ears, and his whole body was tingling with unknown excitement. "More," he said softly, because stopping felt like a loss. So they kissed again, giddy with the realization that it was really happening. They wound their arms around each other, sought to be as close as possible, felt their bodies responding.
"N-not good. I think I... I..." Sherlock said at one point, unable to find the right words to express that he was so dizzy that his knees felt like jelly. Before he could end the sentence, he sagged against John. Losing control of himself like that was an unpleasant sensation, but at least John was there with him this time, John who caught him and gently eased both of them onto the rug.
Sherlock moaned: "Sorry..."
John craned his neck in order to look at him: "You okay?"
"Yeah, it's just..."
"The whiskey?"
"Probably," Sherlock said, trying to determine the source, "though it seems that mostly, it's you."
John regarded him affectionately: "I had no idea you could be so romantic."
"I'm not," Sherlock was confused, "I just analyzed the aval... available data."
"And I," John said, "think we'd better get you to the bathroom. I've seen that colour on your face before."
They spent the following half hour crouched on the bathroom floor while Sherlock threw up the whiskey and whatever he had eaten before, which predictably was not much.
"Sorry," he muttered, voice trembling, once the worst was over, "'s probably not how you imagined this."
"Nothing of all this is how I imagined this," John replied, helping him up, waiting patiently while Sherlock rinsed his mouth. "You should lie down."
"Don't go." Sherlock said as he sat down on his bed, shivering,"stay here. Don't leave."
"I'm not leaving," John replied, soothingly. "Move over."
They slid under the duvet together. For the first few minutes, Sherlock lay rather still, head elevated by two pillows, in order to regain his equilibrium.
"Feeling better?" John asked when a bit of colour had returned to the detective's face.
Sherlock hummed drowsily.
John took that as a yes and scooted closer to the other. He felt calm now, calmer in fact than he had felt in a long time. He wanted to stay awake, to savour the feeling of Sherlock's body, of his scent which was all around John, of his beating heart underneath John's palm. Exhaustion and alcohol eventually took over however; pressed tightly against each other, they fell asleep.
On the following morning, Sherlock woke briefly from a kiss on his forehead and a voice whispering: "I've got to go to work. I'll call you later."
When he had finally managed to struggle out of the haze of sleep and what must be a hangover, John was already gone. Sherlock slowly sat up; his heart leapt as he recalled what had happened, how glorious it had felt to kiss John. It had not been due to the alcohol, though that had probably helped.
He gingerly lay back down; what an unexpected development. He wished he had not had to vomit, it would have been interesting to see what would have happened next. And if he was honest with himself, he would have wanted to go further, would have wanted to make John entirely his and be entirely John's in return. His stomach gave a funny little jolt that had nothing to do with the hangover-related queasiness he felt; with a groan, he closed his eyes.
Mary was already at work when John came in. There were no patients waiting yet, so he stopped in front of her desk: "I was at Sherlock's," he said to forestall the inevitable question, "we got plastered and I fell asleep on his sofa. That's why I didn't call. Sorry."
Mary regarded him calmly: "Well," she said, slowly, "it can happen to anyone, can it?"
"Yeah. Sorry, I've got to wash up a little before anyone comes in." With an apologetic shrug, John went into his room.
He chose not to see the rather forlorn expression on Mary's face.
That morning was rather busy, which John was grateful for. Whenever he thought of Sherlock, his heart beat faster, but it was accompanied by the feeling of guilt. He did not like lying to Mary, and he did not want to lead her on; he felt shabby enough as it was.
His last patient before the lunch break had barely left when Mary knocked and popped her head through the door: "Can we talk?" she asked quietly.
John was far too tired, but he did not see a reason to postpone it. So he beckoned her in, waiting for her to start.
"Ever since Sherlock came back, you've been avoiding me," Mary said after she had sat down. John wanted to say something, but she held up a hand to prevent it: "Please, listen to me first. I need to get this out." She took a deep breath. "I do realize that things haven't been too great lately... I mean, we've been fighting rather a lot. I thought we might able to work on it, but now... I don't think we will."
John was at a loss for words. "Are you breaking up with me?" he asked, confounded.
Mary's eyes were swimming as she looked at him now: "I think I had better," she said, and her voice almost gave out at the last word. "Because otherwise you will break my heart."
"I don't know what to say," John muttered, taken aback. "I..."
Mary fought to keep her composure: "If I am honest with you," she whispered, "I did consider it before."
"What? Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want to hurt you," she replied, sniffing, "you had gone through so much, you obviously weren't over it yet, and... yeah, I thought we could make it work somehow."
John slowly let out his breath. One of the main issues they fought about were children- Mary wanted at least one while John had not felt ready to take on such a responsibility. Not after he had failed his friend, as he thought back then, which he had told Mary in unmistakable terms. She did not want to stand for that, however, which was why one their fights escalated to unprecedented heights: the issue of Sherlock had been taboo, John did not wish to discuss any of it. Mary had accused him of refusing to accept the fact that his friend was dead and gone and was not going to come back, at which point John had thrown a bottle of salad oil against the wall. Yes, it had been bad.
He regarded Mary, who was sobbing, taking in her face and her hunched shoulders and knew why he had thought he had loved her. Maybe he had loved her, but definitely not the way he loved Sherlock. If the detective had not come back, he might have been content with that, and he realized now what a complete idiot he had been. It would not have been enough for Mary, would not have done her justice.
"I'm so sorry," he heard himself say, and to his surprise, his own eyes were moist as well now. "I'm so sorry. I really didn't deserve you."
Mary allowed him to embrace her and hugged him back; it served her right, she thought. She was sorry to lose John, but maybe he had been a means of atonement. After they had met, it had been the first time that she had done something altruistic in her current incarnation. Initially, she only wanted to help John find his bearings because she had felt truly sorry for him, not expecting for their acquaintance to develop into a relationship. John did not know about her history, of course; he would never suspect that she had had an ulterior motive when she first sought more contact.
Poor girl, she thought sardonically, remembering something her grandma, a devout bible reader, used to quote: It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.
It was just as well that her grandma had not been able to foresee the future.
"Yoohoo!"
Sherlock groaned: "Not so loud!"
Mrs Hudson, who came in with a plate of cooked breakfast, looked at him with concern: "What's wong, dear?"
"Nothing's wrong, I just had a bit too much to drink last night and will you please take that away?" Sherlock snapped.
"Fine," she said, visibly offended, "there's no need to yell at me!" She turned to go, but paused: "I heard someone leaving early this morning."
"It was John."
"Oh!"
"Oh what?"
"Well," she smiled mischievously, "I've always thought you two... you know."
"Yeah, sadly, that never actually happened. Only last night we got drunk and finally ended up in the throes of passion."
Mrs Hudson scrunched up her nose curiously: "Really?"
"No. And now get out."
With a huff, she went back downstairs. Sherlock, who was sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of water, groaned once more and rested his head on his arms.
That evening, Sherlock received a text message from John: Mary and I split up. Bit of a situation, won't be coming round tonight. See you tomorrow. Love, J
Since he had no case other than the ominous terrorist attack Mycroft kept rambling about, Sherlock restlessly paced around the living room for the better part of two hours. He wanted to talk to John, to hear what had happened, to just be near him. Apparently, this was not going to happen, so he needed to find something else to do before he went mad.
With a frown, he went into the kitchen.
It was four thirty-five in the morning when John snuck out of the flat he shared with Mary. They had talked a bit more, argued, talked and tried to make arrangements. Now that he knew how to proceed, he felt much better. He was still feeling guilty about the matter, but Mary had been right: they would probably have separated anyway at one point. And he could not but compare her and Sherlock; with Mary, there had never been such a thing as passion involved, but with Sherlock- the way they had kissed had been sensational, and John felt his knees go weak and his blood rush south whenever he thought of the other man.
After waking up early (on the sofa), he had quickly made up his mind to head over to Baker Street. He did not want to wait another whole day before he saw Sherlock.
As quietly as he could, he unlocked the front door and tiptoed up the stairs in his socks. It would not have suprised him to find Sherlock in the living room, occupied with his violin. The flat was quiet however, and John's heart leapt when he peered into the detective's bedroom and saw that he was fast asleep, curled up on his side.
John took off his shoes, coat, trousers and cardigan and slowly slid under the duvet, trying not to make the mattress shake too much. As a precaution, he softly said Sherlock's name before he touched him; he did not want to end up with a fist in his face. Sherlock however sighed in his sleep, obviously not feeling threatened by the new presence, and ever so subtly leaned into the embrace as John gently wound his arm around his midriff and nestled against him.
The doctor did not fall asleep, but dozed for a while, his nose pressed between Sherlock's shoulder blades. He could feel something under the worn fabric of the shirt Sherlock wore, probably gauze, evidence of the violence he had been submitted to. John did not know the details, but torture always meant violence, of which there were too many different kinds, and he could have wept at the notion that Sherlock had suffered like that. He closed his eyes and, trying to distract himself, focused on the gentle motion of Sherlock's belly against his, John's, arm, rising and falling ever so slightly with every breath.
John dozed a bit more, only waking up again when Sherlock moved, half-turning onto his back. He blinked a few times before he turned his head towards John; he was still sleepy, his features relaxed, and the doctor was sure that he had never seen a more enticing sight. But then Sherlock smiled, just a small pulling up of the corners of his mouth, and John had to correct himself. Enticing and lovely, he thought as he smiled back: "Good morning."
"When did you get here?" Sherlock's voice was rough and higher pitched than usual, making him sound impossibly young.
"Around five," John replied, "thought I'd surprise you. Surprises are very in demand lately, or so I heard."
"Idiot," Sherlock murmured, but it sounded fond. His eyes slowly roamed over John's face, taking in every detail before he asked: "Is this real?"
"Yes."
"Mary?"
"Still split up." John looked regretful: "It'll take a while, I guess, until we've sorted everything out, but... I wouldn't have made her happy."
Sherlock raised one hand and touched John's temple with his fingertips, wandering to his ear, his cheek: "Do you think this is the exception?"
"The exception to what?"
"To the rule that nothing can ever be easy."
"I didn't even know that it was a rule," John quipped, but then he said, a little more serious: "Whatever. I'm where I want to be, and I intend to stay. If you'll have me."
Sherlock's gaze was serious now. "I told you," he said in a very low voice, "I'd be lost without you. It was said in jest back then, but... it's actually true. You keep me right, John."
Smiling, John leaned forward so that he could kiss Sherlock again, beaming with pride. This felt right and good and he would not want to exchange it for anything in the world.
Their kisses grew a little bolder after a while, and John tenderly pulled Sherlock on top of him. It was breathtaking to feel his body through the rather thin layers of their clothes. Sherlock moved his hips ever so slightly, causing John to moan and respond with the same motion.
Sherlock had never experienced physical intimacy with anyone before, and he marvelled at how good it felt, how tender and gentle John was with him, how impatient he was himself. He had always imagined it as frantic and a bit odd, embarrassing maybe, but this was far from whatever he had conjured up in his mind.
He felt loved and cherished, and he was... happy that he was sharing that with John, whom he had feared he had lost.
Later on, they lay tangled together, a little sweaty and utterly content.
"I love you," Sherlock said experimentally against John's skin. He liked how the sound rolled off his tongue.
"I love you."
John chuckled, pressing a kiss on Sherlock's curls: "Can I ask you something?"
"Ask away."
"When did you know that you... did not consider yourself married to your work anymore?"
"Right before I stepped off that ledge."
John did not see Sherlock's face as he said it, but the words ghosted over his skin, making him shiver a little. He thinks back to that day, to Sherlock standing up there on the roof. A solitary figure, despair audible in his voice. Tears, and regret. Nothing of that seemed fake, especially not now.
He cleared his throat, not wanting to dwell on it: "So I guess I'll move back in then?"
"Goes without saying," Sherlock murmured.
"Well, but you can tell Mrs Hudson that we'll only be needing one bedroom from now on."
"Oh, she knows."
"What? How?"
"She's got eyes. And ears. And a rather vivid imagination, I gather."
"Sherlock- what did you tell her?"
"Nothing. Though, if she should use the term throes of passion, bear in mind that she's got a history of exotic dancing."
John sighed good-naturedly: "Yep. I've really missed this."
"Hardly this."
"No," John conceded, shifting a little so he could meet Sherlock's gaze: "But this. You. Everything you are, even the prickly bits."
Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again. "Grant called me a bastard," he then said. "And then he hugged me."
"Grant?"
"... Gary?"
"Try again."
"Damn."
"It's Greg."
"Ah, yes. I won't remember that."
"Why not? He's your friend, he hugged you, why can't you remember his name?"
"I don't know. The elements are easier to memorize."
"You are one peculiar specimen, Sherlock Holmes. I'm so very glad to have you."
Predictably, Sherlock looked very pleased with himself.
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The End
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Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback.
I'm no native speaker, therefore I apologize for any mistakes.
The Shakespeare quote is from "As You Like It".
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