Nothing Left Untouched
Author's Note: This fic started because I asked for drabble prompts on Tumblr, and when I got this amazing one, I just couldn't stop writing! So, thanks to user fanficsagogo, here it is and I hope that you like it :)
SHxJW
When John comes home from a long day at the surgery, all he wants is a nice long nap. However, when he opens his bedroom door, his jaw drops. He closes the door again almost immediately. He shuts his eyes tight and takes a deep breath because surely he must be dreaming. Surely there isn't a bloody library where his bedroom used to be. He opens the door again. Nope. Still a library. John stomps down the stairs, his bad mood now increased tenfold.
"Sherlock! What the hell did you do to my bedroom?!" John yells. Sherlock looks up from his microscope.
"Ah yes, you mean the research library. I thought we could use one, we're quickly running out of room on our shelves," Sherlock replies calmly before going back to his microscope, but John is not letting this go so easily.
"And what made you think I'd be okay with that?!"
Sherlock looks puzzled, as if John's reaction was the one thing he hadn't entirely thought through. John barrels on.
"One room, Sherlock. All I wanted was one room that I didn't have to worry about toxic fumes, acids, body parts, or any other godforsaken experiment of yours. One room untouched by the great Sherlock Holmes. That's all I wanted, and you couldn't even handle that simple request?!"
Sherlock looks as if he wants to say something, opening and closing his mouth like a fish, but stays silent. Without thinking, John storms off to what used to be his bedroom, and it isn't until he reaches the door that he remembers he doesn't have a bedroom anymore, thanks to Sherlock. However, John has too much pride to go back downstairs, so he enters the library and plops himself down in a newly purchased armchair. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm down. A few minutes later, he hears tentative footsteps and the sound of the door opening.
"Piss off," John says without looking up, too tired to muster up the venom to go with the words. The footsteps get closer, unheeded.
"John, I'm... I'm sorry. I may have miscalculated," Sherlock says, hesitantly.
"Wow, an apology and admittance that you were wrong, I hope the cameras are rolling," John says sarcastically, raising his head to look at Sherlock. Upon seeing Sherlock's seemingly genuine apologetic expression, John sighs, all of the fight leaving him in one foul swoop.
"So, I notice there's no bed in here. Just where am I supposed to sleep?" John says, still feeling slightly annoyed.
"With me," Sherlock says, about as casually as if he was talking about the weather. John's eyes widen.
"Wh-what?!" he sputters. Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"Oh, please, John. We're friends, and in any case, I don't sleep much as you well know. Also, you're a military man and have obviously slept in close quarters with men before, so I don't see an issue here."
"Don't see an iss- you know what? Why do I even bother. I'll be on the bloody couch until you give me my bedroom back, which I expect to be soon," John says, putting on his Captain Watson voice towards the end. Sherlock huffs an irritated sigh, but doesn't argue.
SHxJW
Later that night, John tosses and turns on the couch, unable to drift off to sleep. He is exhausted and misses the comfort of his soft, warm mattress instead of the couch, which is currently reeking havoc on his neck and back. He tries a multitude of different sleeping positions, each one somehow feeling worse than the last. He reaches over to his phone resting on the coffee table, groaning when the clock reads 02:24. After a few more minutes, he finally gives up and gets off the couch, wincing as his joints complain.
He sleepily heads to Sherlock's room - in naught but a white t-shirt and his pants - and opens the door, squinting as the light assaults his eyes. Sherlock is sat up against the headboard with John's laptop, clad in a grey shirt and matching silk pyjama bottoms. He doesn't say anything as John climbs into the bed, turning away from Sherlock and the offending light. However, he can practically hear Sherlock's self-satisfied smirk.
"Shut up," John mumbles, shortly before thankfully falling fast asleep.
SHxJW
The next morning, John feels a warmth next to him and a weight across his stomach. He slowly opens his eyes and is greeted with the sight of a dark and curly head of hair resting on his chest, nestled in under his jaw. At some point during the night, Sherlock had cuddled up next to John and thrown an arm over his abdomen. And John really doesn't want to think about the thing that is currently jutting into his hip, or how that thing is causing a similar reaction in John.
He quickly extricates himself from the situation and goes to take a shower - a long, cold shower.
When John finally emerges, Sherlock is awake and dressed, saying there's been a text from Lestrade, something about a triple homicide and a demonic cult and Hurry up, John, before Anderson contaminates all the evidence with his incompetence.
If Sherlock knows about what transpired earlier that morning, he doesn't say anything about it. John doesn't say anything either, but he can't help but think about it in the cab on the way to the crime scene.
The great Sherlock Holmes: a cuddler. Who knew?
SHxJW
The next few days are spent pouring over books on Satanism and decidedly not sleeping (except for the occasional hour or two that John manages to steal, his face sticking to the pages of whatever book he was reading at his desk). Then Sherlock inevitably finds a breakthrough and they go galavanting off into the streets of London at a ridiculous hour of the night (or should he say morning), as per usual.
Once they trudge back to 221B, the killer caught and the case solved, Sherlock turns to look at John.
"Bed?" he asks. John nods.
As they get ready for bed in Sherlock's room and slip into their respective sides, the whole thing feels oddly... domestic. Intimate in a way John doesn't quite know how to feel about.
And, as he sinks into unconsciousness to the soft sound of Sherlock's steady breathing, he can't help but think that for someone who has claimed time and time again to be "not gay", he feels much too comfortable in this current situation.
SHxJW
The bizarre sleeping routine goes on for a few weeks, John gets the best sleep he's had in years and - on the nights that Sherlock makes it to bed - he always wakes up with an armful of detective (and John is much less quick to extricate himself now if he's being honest). Neither of them talks about it. The routine begins to verge on the edge of being normal (or as normal as things get in their lives), until one night there is a monumental change-up.
John gets shot.
John doesn't remember all that much about it. He remembers chasing a criminal down the streets of London with Sherlock, and then he remembers an alley and a gunshot and white-hot pain spreading through his torso; the rest is hazy and dark. The next thing he remembers is slowly opening his eyes to an intense blue-grey stare. Sherlock leans forward in his chair beside John's bed, the edges of his mouth quirking upwards in the ghost of a smile.
"Welcome back, John."
SHxJW
After routine checks by the hospital, John is cleared to go home. He looks forward to sleeping in his own bed - or rather, Sherlock's bed, which he'd privately begun to think of as his own (something he prefers not to dwell on too much).
They get ready as usual, John taking special care not to open up the stitches running along his torso. He'd been lucky; the bullet hadn't nicked any major arteries or organs.
It takes John longer to fall asleep that night. Even with his eyes closed, he can tell that Sherlock is awake as well.
He's just about to drift off, when Sherlock says his name softly.
"John?"
John stays silent, too tired and sore and close to sleep to really want to talk so early in the morning. A beat of silence and Sherlock continues speaking.
"Just as well that you're asleep, I suppose. I just wanted to say that... I'm... I'm glad you're okay. I know I take risks with my own life, but I hope you know that I would never intentionally risk your life in the same way. I... I wasn't exaggerating when I said I'd be lost without my blogger. And... I- I love... having you here. With me. Erm. Yes. Well. That's all," Sherlock finishes awkwardly, mumbling words under his breath that sound suspiciously like "sentiment" and "ridiculous", and then silence once again engulfs the room.
Suddenly, John feels the bed shift and a gentle, feather-light pressure descends on his lips. Without thinking it through, his exhausted brain not weighing the possible repercussions, John kisses back, raising a tentative hand to rest at the back of Sherlock's head.
Sherlock gasps a little in surprise, immediately pulling away. John opens his eyes slowly, to be met with the sight of Sherlock's frightened expression. In the span of a tired blink, Sherlock rockets out of bed and out of the room. A moment later, John hears the sound of discordant, screechy notes belonging to Sherlock's violin.
John considers going to talk to him, but he's not entirely sure what just happened and his brain is not at the capacity it should be to think about - let alone discuss - this... whatever it is he's got going on with Sherlock. So, he rolls over, wincing at the momentary pressure on his wound, and falls into a fitful sleep.
SHxJW
The next morning when John awakes, he's not sure whether what happened last night was even real. Upon further reflection - and against his desperate hopes - he determines that it did, in fact, happen.
And now they have to talk about it.
So, John takes a deep breath, gets out of bed, and heads downstairs. However, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. Puzzled, John looks to the coat rack and sees that Sherlock's Belstaff and scarf are there, so he must still be in the flat. Not knowing where else to look, John heads to the research library. He opens the door and is shocked at what he finds. The library is no longer a library, but his bedroom, looking practically identical to how it used to. Sherlock is just finishing tucking in a corner of the sheets when he notices John standing in the doorway and straightens up. John is speechless.
"You- I- But- What?" John stammers incoherently.
"This is what you wanted, is it not? You now have your one room back, John, and I can promise you that it will remain untouched by me from this point onward," Sherlock says before walking straight past him and out of the room, leaving John to ponder what the hell just happened. John plops down on the edge of his newly made bed, mind reeling.
Where was the man who, just last night, nearly told John that he loved him? Where was the man who kissed him so softly? The man who told him that he'd be lost without him? Was this what Sherlock really wanted? Had last night just all been a lie? How could John have been so wrong? Questions whirl around John's head, crashing into each other in a distracting cacophony of confusing thoughts.
John and Sherlock spend the rest of the day in awkward silence, tentatively avoiding each other. When it comes time for bed, they each go - for the first time in about a month - to their own respective bedrooms.
John stares up at his ceiling, wondering how he got to this point. At first, he had been unbelievably angry with Sherlock for such a blatant invasion of his space. Then, there'd been a reluctant acceptance of the situation. And then - dare he say it - enjoyment? John liked sleeping with Sherlock. In the past few weeks, he'd forgotten all about his bedroom and how he said that he'd wanted it back. And, now that he has it, he finds he doesn't want it back at all.
All he wants is Sherlock.
John spends a couple more minutes tossing and turning, before finally giving up and throwing the covers off himself, padding down the stairs to Sherlock's room. He opens the door nervously and is greeted with Sherlock in bed with a book in his hands, which he looks up from when John enters the room.
"I believe it's social etiquette to knock," Sherlock says testily, like he actually gives one flying fuck about social niceties.
"I was wrong," John says quickly in a bout of nervousness.
"You'll have to specify, John. You being wrong is by no means a singular occurrence," Sherlock replies. John decides to ignore the comment and blunders on.
"I don't need a room untouched by you. I don't want one. You... you're such an integral part of my life and everything in it. So, it's not... it's not even possible, and I... I just... dammit you know this is hard for me. Look, about the kiss-"
"A moment of weakness and nothing more, I assure you," Sherlock interrupts.
"Bullshit."
"Pardon?"
"I said, bullshit," John continues forcefully, starting to feel annoyed, "I heard what you said, Sherlock. You're afraid to lose me. You care about me, and that scares you. Well, you know what? It scares me too. But for Christ's sake, that's what love is. It's bloody terrifying, and that's why we have to stick together on this, just like we always have. Alright?"
"You... You love me?" Sherlock asks quietly and it's not until then that John realizes he let that little detail slip in the midst of his rant.
"I- well- Yes. Yes, I suppose I do. And... uh... do you...?" John replies, instantly feeling ridiculous.
"Obviously," Sherlock says immediately. John nods.
"Right. Well. Good. Glad we got that sorted, then," John says awkwardly, not quite knowing exactly what to do now. After a moment of staring, Sherlock rolls his eyes and flips up a side of the covers.
"Well? Are you getting in or not?" he says impatiently and the whole situation is so absurd that John can't help but laugh before sliding into bed beside Sherlock.
After a moment's pause, John turns his head and captures Sherlock's lips, kissing him deeply before he can talk himself out of it. Sherlock kisses back, running a hand through John's short hair. They soon come up for air, smiling at each other, before Sherlock reaches over to turn out the beside lamp, and they start getting comfortable in bed.
And this time, Sherlock doesn't have to be unconscious to wrap himself around John, and John settles into the warm comfort that the detective's presence provides, elated by the simple fact that he can, while thinking about just how lucky he is.
And how maybe, just maybe, the stupid research library wasn't such a terrible idea after all.
SHxJW
Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Feedback is, as always, appreciated :D