The violin wept in 4/4 time while the long, tapered fingers of the consulting detective absently worshipped the instrument. He was turned toward the window, but his eyes were closed, depriving one sense to make another come alive. Painfully elegant music poured out of him almost of its own accord, almost passionate enough to drown out his thoughts, as well as the beating of the heart most believed did not exist.
He was not, contrary to the popular belief he himself had cultivated, a sociopath. Not truly. It was only that the things he felt, he couldn't put into words. Music was the only outlet for the passion pulsing within, and he poured his heart's blood on the violin, scattering it with the bow to let it fill the room, the empty silence, the only way he could.
His perpetually calm face showed nothing of the turbulence within, but it didn't need to. Any fool could hear the music screaming it for him, drawing out everything he was and leaving him utterly vulnerable to anyone who listened. But, of course, no one listened to the violinist at three in the morning.
No one but John Watson.
This was not the first concert that had intruded on John's dreams, but there was something… different, about it. It may simply have been the time that had passed since the last one—after The Fall, after all, he'd never thought he'd hear those gut-wrenching melodies performed live ever again. The violin itself had lain untouched, waiting for the master whose life John had begged for to return and reclaim it. And now, he was back…
And now, the violin wept again with raw need, some yearning words could never describe. But it was there in the melody, the notes that conveyed all the things that Sherlock could not say.
Entranced, John found himself reacting in ways he never had before. Normally, when the music crept through his floorboards and intruded on his dreams, he would simply roll over and return to sleep, never realizing that the dreams that occasionally plagued him never returned on those nights. In the morning, he would typically mention with irritation the interruption of his sleep, but it never had an effect on the detective whose only reply was a slight tightening at the corner of his mouth.
Something about the piece, though, alerted John to the fact that this was not a normal situation. So many other things had fallen right back into their same rhythms, but this… this piece was not played with reserved elegance, did not sound beautiful but cold to his ears. This was the song of someone whose heart was breaking… and John could no more ignore Sherlock's heart's song than he could stop his own breathing with a thought.
Careful, steady feet brought him down the stairs, making almost no sound. But Sherlock's ears picked it up, as always; ever since his return, he had allowed himself to be far more aware of John Watson's movements, never letting him completely leave his bubble of awareness. If the doctor was anywhere in the apartment, Sherlock knew exactly where. It was an obsession, almost as ingrained in him as the need to play the violin. In some ways, he could admit to himself only in his head, his observation of John was even more vital to him. He might be able to give up the violin—and had, while he'd been away—but he could never give up John, even if only in his own head.
Eyes still closed, he let the final notes reverberate through him, drawing the ending out so he wouldn't have to turn, wouldn't have to look at John's face when he asked him not to play at odd hours of the morning, as he had so many times before. This was the only way in which Sherlock could show his emotions… and he didn't want to lock them away anymore.
"Sherlock?" John's voice wasn't angry, as he'd expected, and it gave Sherlock pause as he slowly let out a breath. His bow was still poised, violin still raised as if he had only paused, and would resume again. He wouldn't, not that night; his heart had been sliced open quite enough for that moment, and had no interest in ripping himself open more while he knew John was listening. The part of him that was always careful told him that John must never find out that the melody was for him, that every melody would always be for him.
When Sherlock said nothing, John sighed, glad he'd bothered to put sleeping pants on before going to sleep that night. He walked into the room and made himself comfortable on the couch, keeping his eyes on the pale detective whose back was turned toward him.
"Look, your songs tonight are… not what you normally play. Is everything okay?" John cursed inwardly at himself, for the slip he had nearly made. He'd nearly suggested that Sherlock's music was sentimental. And yet, it had been.
"Is anything ever 'okay?'" Sherlock drawled the words slowly, amused at both the situation and himself, and the emotion which strained his voice made John sit up a little straighter. He'd still been tired when he'd come downstairs, but he was now very aware that something was going on with Sherlock. Something not explained by The Fall.
"Sherlock, tell me what's going on. You can trust me."
"Trust you? Unquestionably. Tell you what I am thinking? Unlikely." Sherlock turned abruptly, moving to sit beside John on the couch, depositing the violin on the chair before clasping his hands together. Tension thrummed through him like he was a live wire, and John wondered for a moment if touching him would result in an electric shock, he was acting so bizarrely.
"Sherlock…" Unsure what to say, John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, only to have him stiffen further. John had no doubt it was because of his display of sentiment, which Sherlock loathed, but John wasn't sure what else to do. If Sherlock were a normal bloke, he'd likely make some joke about John's sexuality. As it was, he simply turned to look at John's hand, eyes practically burning through his skin, and he realized he probably couldn't move his hand even if he wanted to. Sherlock's gaze, as ever, was simply too intense.
And then, slowly, he reached up and took John's hand with his, removing it gently. But instead of dropping it, he held it up, pressing his own palm against it and letting their fingers match up. Then, meticulously, he turned his hand on a small angle, enough to tangle his fingers with John's. By this point they were both holding their breath, and when Sherlock finished the motion, they both let out their breath. Then they turned to face one another.
"I abhor sentiment." Sherlock murmured, and John nearly pulled away. Sherlock's next words stopped him. "From anyone but you. I do not understand why you would care for me, John, but you have made it obvious that you do in fact care for me. I would like to know why… and how far that goes."
John felt blood rush into his face, and hastily pulled his hand away.
"You don't have to do this." John bit out, realizing that the game was up. Would he have to move out? Or would Sherlock take the opportunity to experiment on him, play with his emotions in order to prove some hypothesis?
"I am merely curious, John. It is certainly up to you if you do not wish to answer my questions…" Bowing his head, Sherlock looked at his own hands once again, his voice sad and resigned. It was enough to make John reevaluate.
"Why are you asking them?"
"I…" Sherlock shook his head impatiently, standing and heading for his violin again. John stopped him with a hand on his wrist, fingers wrapped tightly around his skin. Sherlock's pulse stuttered beneath his fingers while his eyes widened.
"Sherlock." John stood up, turning Sherlock around to face him. His gaze focused on the smiley face on the wall, on the rug on the floor, anything but John. And there was no way to make him talk unless he would look at him.
Reaching up with his free hand, John slowly cupped the side of Sherlock's face, fingers tangling at the ends in his hair. Slowly, gently, he made Sherlock look him in the eye.
His face showed no emotion, but his eyes were overrun with it. Fear, hope, love, confusion, all those and more competed in his eyes, and John felt himself drowning.
"Oh." It was a moment of revelation for John, but he wasn't going to waste time saying it out loud. Words weren't needed, but Sherlock did need to know that the song Sherlock had been planning was one his own heart had played a million times in his absence.
Sliding his hand back into Sherlock's hair, he brought his head down, pressing his lips gently against the consulting detective's. Both their eyes were open, but that didn't last long once Sherlock hesitantly flicked his tongue out, running it over John's bottom lip.
Moaning into the self-conscious caress, John kissed him a little harder, letting his eyes close. The two were sliding slowly into the kiss, into the dual embrace of passion and love, when Sherlock pulled back.
"It's late, and neither of us is thinking clearly. I will see you in the morning, John." Turning and walking away without looking back so John couldn't see his regret, he shut himself in his room and sighed, wishing he had thought to bring his violin with him.
John stood there feeling his heart racing in his chest, wondering if the sensation was anything like being run over by a train. Had Sherlock only allowed the kiss for John's benefit? He certainly hadn't seemed bothered by walking away from it. Had John done something wrong, or was Sherlock just really that averse to sentiment?
Shaking his head, he decided to take the detective's unspoken advice and get some sleep. In the morning, he could talk to Sherlock…
But in the morning, Sherlock was not in the apartment. While John was waking up in his own bed, wrung out from dreams that seemed farther away than ever, Sherlock was sitting in Mycroft's parlor, silently watching his brother. He was unsure where to begin, but Mycroft knew him too well to think he would be there for any reason other than John.
"What have you done to the poor doctor this time, Sherlock?"
"I kissed him." Noting the spark of surprise in Mycroft's eyes, Sherlock knew he would have to elaborate. Watching Mycroft lift his cup of tea to his mouth with his usual grace, he wondered if anything had ever shaken his brother like John could shake him, with just a smile.
"Mycroft, I… fear that I may have made a mess of things. He caught me playing for him, and it was late, and I temporarily forgot the reason I have not pursued this."
"And what reason is that, Sherlock? I know it is not your usual distaste for sentiment. I have told you before that caring is not an advantage, yet I know you have disregarded my advice and care greatly for John Watson. What reason do you have for ignoring your… feelings?"
The way Mycroft said 'feelings' sounded to Sherlock as if he was speaking of a repulsive bug or something, and he barked out a laugh, jumping to his feet to pace. Unbothered by his brother's antics, Mycroft simply waited. He knew the answer would come out sooner or later. Sherlock always did love theatrics.
"If I don't tell John about… this… then he can't reject me. If he knows, if I let him know, then it's over. Then he can tell me he isn't interested. Worse, he could choose not to remain my friend, flat share, or partner. I can't lose him completely, even if I can't ever have him completely. It would break me, finally succeed in burning the heart out of me. I doubt Moriarty ever realized it would be that simple. He didn't need his lies, or his threats. All he would have had to do, all it would take, is turning John against me. And I would be lost."
Realizing his brother was completely serious wasn't difficult for Mycroft. Sherlock's grasp on right and wrong had always been relative to the people he let into his life, and while Mycroft had eventually lead him away from drugs and toward a healthier career of helping people, he knew it was only his influence, and Gregory Lestrade's, had kept him on that path. John, however, had taken it to a completely new level. Not only was Sherlock doing the right thing, but he understood what the right thing was, even cared a little. John had given Sherlock and extraordinary gift, but it was a double-edged sword for the genius. Without John Watson, he would be a ship untethered, drifting away from shore until he no longer even believed land existed.
Knowing this could not be allowed to happen, Mycroft considered simply telling Sherlock that the doctor he loved returned the feelings. But that would never reassure him. No, John would need to be the one to tell Sherlock. Mycroft couldn't play matchmaker—it was up to the two men to realize what they were to one another, to admit it out loud so there would be no more misunderstandings. But there was one small thing that Mycroft could do.
"You need to go home, Sherlock. You need to figure out a way to both be honest and keep your assistant. Your Work suffers for your neglect while you let emotions have their way with you."
Sherlock flinched at the accusation, and stormed out without another word, his Belstaff swishing angrily. Mycroft heard his door slam shut, and sighed. Only Sherlock, he thought to himself, could be so blind to what was going on inside John when he saw everything else with unerring accuracy.
John had just made up his mind that the night before had been an experiment on Sherlock's part and begun the soothing process of putting on tea when the genius stormed into the apartment, slamming the door behind him in a way that made John wince. Then he remembered Mrs. Hudson had gone to visit her sister, and relaxed a little. At least she wasn't being bothered by the consulting detective. John, however, was still trying to figure out how to broach the night before, or get past it somehow, when Sherlock strode right past him without a word and slammed his bedroom door for emphasis.
Letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, John finished making his cuppa and settled in with a book in his usual spot, waiting Sherlock's temper-tantrum out like always. The routine was almost enough to make him forget the violin playing of the night before… or the kiss it had fueled, before Sherlock had blamed a need for sleep on his sudden departure. More likely, John thought a little bitterly, it was because the kiss had proven to him that there was no reason for him to pursue anything of a sexual nature with his roommate. The experiment had undoubtedly been a failure, by his cold reaction.
Bringing his cup to his lips to drink, John realized he had run out of tea, lost in thought. It was also much later, and he had made surprisingly little progress on the novel for the lateness of the hour. Streetlights were blinking on outside, and Sherlock had yet to emerge from his room. With a sigh, John washed and dried his tea cup and then headed for his room to catch up on the sleep he'd lost out on the night before.
Sherlock waited for hours for John to give in to sleep, stubbornly refusing to go out and attempt to talk to him. He knew he was acting ridiculous, like a child, but there was too much bloody sentiment clouding his normally icy cold mind for him to act like his usual self. And he didn't want John realizing his actions sprang from desire, and regret that he'd messed things up so badly the night before. Better he thought Sherlock was upset with Mycroft, he thought bitterly, then ever realize the truth. John moving out was not worth the kiss, explosive thought it had been for him for those few brief moments.
The genius had almost allowed himself to hope, for those seconds frozen in time, that John returned his feelings. But then he'd remembered it was ridiculous. John was many things to Sherlock, but why would the completely straight, strong, beautiful, proud, romantic army doctor ever want someone as backward and socially inept as Sherlock? The answer was obvious: he wouldn't. Pity, then, had compelled the kiss. Or shock. Sherlock wasn't certain which was worse, but indulging in the fantasy that it had been prompted from anything else would lead to disaster, and pain.
Moving away from the window he'd been standing by, lost in thought, as soon as John's door swung shut upstairs, Sherlock moved to the living room and picked up his violin. Within moments, the room was again full of music, the rise and fall of emotion that Sherlock couldn't voice. He knew it was ridiculous, guessing that John would sleep too solidly to be woken again after the events of the night before, but he couldn't deduce exactly what the doctor would do, or what he himself would do if John came downstairs after all.
John did not come down, and Sherlock played the night away, letting his heart weep and bleed in the only way he knew how. Everything he was, he poured into the music, his heart's song reaching out to the one man who'd never seen him as a freak or an imposition, a sociopath or a fraud. No, John, his only friend, had only ever seen him for what he was. And now, when Sherlock was feeling painfully human, weak and sentimental, he fervently hoped that John would not see through him, as he always seemed to. It was all he had left to hope for.
The concerts continued for a week or more, and the flat mates at 221B Baker Street settled into a new routine. John would go to surgery during the day, while Sherlock slept or solved cases over the phone (he now refused to leave the flat or even dress properly, running about in his dressing robe and, occasionally, trousers) and Sherlock would be in his room by the time John returned home. Then, John would fix him something to drink, and something to eat, and leave it outside his door before retreating to bed. Then, around an hour later, the music would begin. The last haunting melody would play itself out a little before sunrise, which was when John's alarm went off, and he usually fell in and out of sleep listening to the songs.
Slowly, John thought he was figuring out what the music was all about. Sherlock was in mourning, or the closest thing to it he could reach. Sherlock, who didn't process emotions as did most people, probably didn't even know what it was. But John, who'd certainly experienced it enough in his own life, could hear it in the sorrowful notes that were wrenched from the consulting detective's soul and transcribed for the violin. He still couldn't figure out what Sherlock was mourning, but had begun to wonder if it had something to do with the failed experiment. It had started the night after that, after all.
The next day, John had off from work, as well as the day after. Sarah had become rather insistent that he take some time to himself, and he had to admit that the work that normally distracted him from the sulky detective was not doing its job, so he willingly accepted the time. He'd been hoping to use it to figure Sherlock out, but doubted he would ever know unless he flat out asked the man.
Knowing it was breaking their silently agreed upon code, John crept down the stairs, using the cover of the music to mask the footsteps Sherlock usually heard. Usually, he was aware of John's movements, even when busy with something, unless he was in his Mind Palace. In those cases, John could go missing for days and Sherlock would never notice. This was different.
The violin practically bled sorrow under the labors of its master, and Sherlock, whose attention was turned again to the window, seemed barely aware of it. John frowned, tempted to reach out and touch Sherlock's shoulder. Before he could, the man stiffened, and the music stopped with a painful squeal that had John wincing.
A little startled by the abrupt end to the playing, John let his hand drop to his side, the words he'd half planned to say dropping from his mind as Sherlock whirled around, an expression like none John had ever seen on his face before changing him from the detective he knew well to someone who might have been a stranger, were those not the same pale, ethereal eyes under those dark lashes. Horror, pain, and sorrow mingled in a way that stole John's breath, and he wondered if it would even be possible to comfort Sherlock.
"Are you, um, okay?" Knowing the words were pathetically inadequate, John winced the second they left his mouth. After a week of speaking to no one, Sherlock's voice was a little rough when he answered, but it was nearly acerbic enough to merit another flinch.
"Why should you care?" It was wrong, to attack John for what was not his fault, but Sherlock was a little past caring. It had been a week of complete silence, and though John had fed him and looked out for him from a distance, it had been all too reminiscent of the rejection Sherlock had pictured too many times. He could feel the panic beginning to set in, but there was no way for him to get it under control now. He could feel his control slipping away, and he briefly realized that Mycroft had been right... but The Work wasn't the only thing suffering for his inability to tell the truth to the one person who'd always accepted it from him, for worse or for better.
"Because I'm your friend." Sneering at John's calmly delivered statement, Sherlock set his violin to the side and decided to let his rapidly fleeing control go. It wasn't doing him any good anyway, and at this rate, the doctor would leave him even without knowing how Sherlock felt. That thought was almost more than he could bear. If he gave John a reason, at least that was a choice. Letting him go simply because of irritation meant Sherlock would always have to wonder. At least he could make it a clean blow.
Spinning around, Sherlock pushed John backward until he hit the wall, then he bent his head and began to slowly devour his mouth. The kiss was anger and passion, pleasure and pain, lust and love and his typical loathing of sentiment mixing together to tell John exactly what he'd done to him, what he'd turned him into. Sherlock held nothing back from the kiss, not one emotion, not one fear. Everything he was, he gave to John, sucking gently at his lip before nipping at it sharply, tangling fingers in his hair, pressing his body against the other man's as if he could never be close enough.
Then Sherlock took a step back, realizing that the kiss had grounded him again. Where before, the world had been swirling crimson chaos, there was some clarity here at the end of all things. Even when John found the words to speak of his disgust, even when he walked out the door and never spoke to Sherlock again, he would always have that kiss. He could return to it time and time again, never mind that the doctor hadn't responded to the onslaught with anything but surprise. When he was alone, he would pretend that it was pleased surprise, that John was welcoming him into his embrace. And it would be enough. Sherlock would make it be enough, or he would lose himself to drugs until he forgot his own name.
Even then, he knew, John's would be the name on his lips when he overreached, when he took more than he could handle, when his habits caught up with him. Because at the end of his life, John would always be the only thing he had ever really wanted with every beat of his heart. For John, he would have been able to let his guard down, to really feel something other than contempt. For John, he would have stayed clean, helped people because it was the right thing to do… even died. Because there was nothing he would not do for the one man he had loved, the only man he would ever love.
Caught up in the whirlwind of Sherlock's kiss, John had to bite back the protest that came to his lips when Sherlock pulled back, his eyes oddly empty. Instead of the almost manic swirling that had preceded the kiss, or the usual superior glint, there was simply… absence. It wasn't the kind that came from being buried in his Mind Palace, either. It was almost as if Sherlock was at peace. John finally recognized the look—it was the one that had been on his father's face when he'd died, after talking about how it would be to finally hold John's mom in his arms again. Never mind that there was a chance there was no such thing as heaven. Belief that love could conquer all… that was what the look bespoke.
Yet when Sherlock spoke, his words were every bit as cold as they had been on the day the two men had met.
"This, John, is why you should never let sentiment rule you. It will destroy you, as it has destroyed me." Unable to tell his doctor that he would miss him—and reminding himself that he had no right to call John his—Sherlock turned and walked away slowly, still listening to the harsh breathing behind him. He was giving the army doctor time to recover from the shock and yell, throw things, hit him… whatever he needed to do to get it off his chest. Sherlock had taken what didn't belong to him, and would pay the price, whatever it was, gladly. What he didn't expect was the steady, strong hand wrapping around his wrist to whirl him around, holding him still by sliding to the back of his neck while John pressed their lips together like a drowning man searching for air.
Startled, Sherlock imbalanced, his usual grace failing him entirely. He ended up sprawled on the sofa with John between his thighs. Before he could move to apologize, John's lips were attacking his again, giving back everything he'd been given. And Sherlock wasn't processing any of it, too surprised.
"If sentiment destroys, let it have us both. I don't care anymore." John pulled back long enough to voice that thought before moving to Sherlock's neck, nipping and sucking at the smooth, pale, sensitive flesh until Sherlock was trembling beneath him. It wasn't enough, would never be enough… and then he realized that Sherlock wasn't moving, though his pulse was jumping beneath John's lips like a siren's song.
Worried he'd gotten the wrong impression, John pushed away and scrambled to the end of the couch, trying to reclaim his sanity. When Sherlock had cursed sentiment… had he been cursing his own sentiment, or John's? What if he had been telling John that he knew about the army doctor's feelings, and found them intolerable, and could no longer work with him as a result? John had always figured that at some point, Sherlock would figure it out. And he'd always assumed that when he did, he'd be disgusted, throw John out as immediately as he'd taken him in. Sherlock had given John back his will to live, but how far had John honestly expected that to go? And why would a god like Sherlock ever want someone like him?
Realizing that of course he'd made a mistake, because Sherlock was still simply staring at him as if he'd grown two heads, John ran a hand over his face, blaming the lack of sleep on his stupidity and praying that it didn't lose him the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Sherlock, instead of moving, was still lying on his back on the couch, breathing unsteadily, staring at John with wide eyes. His brain was whirring crazily, and he wondered if he could even form a coherent sentence. John was looking at him with so much emotion in his eyes, emotion Sherlock had never thought anyone could possibly feel about him… and then she shutters came down, and John looked at the floor, the hard line of his jaw suggesting that he was attempting to hold back an outpouring of emotion.
"Why did you move?" Sherlock asked finally, confused. Yes, that was the one. The emotion he'd settled on was confusion. Confusion as to why John would ever initiate a kiss with him, why he would say the things he had… and why he would move away, looking as if he hated himself for what he'd been doing. John had always said that it was fine to be gay, yet here he was, apparently angry at his own actions.
Sherlock sat up slowly, trying not to draw attention to himself. He'd been attacked before for his sexual orientation, by people who'd been attracted by his physical appearance but hated that they had been. It was a path he never wanted to go down again. He didn't think John would attack him, but just in case, he curled himself into a little ball on the opposite end of the sofa, watching the doctor with wide eyes and trying to predict his next move. For once, Sherlock could perceive nothing.
"Because I shouldn't have done that." John, still looking at the ground when he spoke, almost missed the way Sherlock flinched in the aftermath, the way he closed his eyes in an expression of grief suitable only for a man who'd just lost everything, and the way he opened those mercurial eyes again, full of resignation. It was a near miss, one that could have cost John the one man he doubted he could ever live without.
As it was, however, John had chosen that moment to turn and look at him, prepared to see anger, or at least the familiar haughty arrogance, icing over Sherlock's expression. He was startled to realize how wrongly he'd read the situation, but not half as startled as he was when Sherlock rose to his feet, blinking away all emotion to resemble the machine John had once accused him of being.
Sherlock strode from the room to his own, shutting the door with a quiet but easily interpreted click. The detective was done, saw no further reason to engage in the conversation, or any conversation at all. Part of him was already gone to his Mind Palace, where he would hide until he was sure that the doctor was gone. And then? Sherlock no longer cared. He'd gambled it all, and lost everything. At least, he thought with a dark, twisted expression that nearly resembled a smile, John hadn't hit him.
John realized how horribly his words had been misread, and traced back over the last week to find that a great many situations had been misinterpreted by the both of them. In their own ways, the two complimented one another because of the ways in which they were broken, the complete lack of self-confidence that they somehow fixed for one another. John wondered how Sherlock could have missed his emotions, obvious as they should have been, and realized he'd made the same mistake everyone always did—they assumed that the consulting detective didn't know how to love. And as John had discovered, just before he'd turned away, that wasn't true at all.
Blinking in shock, the military doctor tried to hurriedly order his thoughts so that when he approached Sherlock, he would actually have something to say that made sense. Eventually, he just shook his head, laughing a little. The only words that would work, the only words that would repair what was broken, were the ones that tripped off his tongue naturally. No organized speech would do.
Sherlock heard, dimly, the laughter from the other room, the delighted laughter of someone who'd just discovered something extraordinary. He lay back on his bed and closed his eyes, wondering why he couldn't escape. When he heard footsteps heading to his room, however, he sat straight up, eyes snapping open, heart racing in his chest. What was there left to say? Undoubtedly, John was coming to taunt him, or worse, attack him. It had happened before. Sherlock contemplated going out the window, but dismissed the idea. He squared his jaw, placing his hands on the mattress on either side of him. He would accept the consequences of his stupidity, and then he would go get high out of his mind to escape the pain. It was, obviously, the only choice left.
John knocked softly on the door, catching Sherlock a little off guard. Still, he didn't move, didn't speak, barely even breathed until the sound of the doctor's voice came through the door to his ears.
"Sherlock, can we talk?" It was an unexpectedly soft tone he employed, touched with amusement. Was it going to be pity, then? Because he was a freak, an abomination, someone so fucked up that not even John, so full of compassion, could ever love him? Deciding that getting it over with was the best option, he crossed to the door, opened it, and resumed his position on the bed. He would remain completely silent; John would not see him break.
Frowning a little at the tense way Sherlock held himself, John held onto his courage and walked over to sit beside him on the bed, contemplating taking Sherlock's hand for a moment before biting the bullet and doing just that, quietly damning the consequences if he was wrong. Please, don't let me be wrong.
"Sherlock, I didn't mean that I didn't want to kiss you earlier. I meant that I shouldn't have been that forward. At first, I thought that all of this was some kind of experiment on your part. Then, I was terrified that you'd figured out how I felt—because how could you, the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, not see right through me?—and that you were trying to make it clear to me that there was no chance of anything happening, and that I'd fucked things up completely, and that you wanted me gone. But now, I'm thinking that we've been misunderstanding one another all week."
Sherlock stared into John's eyes, almost not comprehending his words, until John reached up and cupped his face, biting his lip.
"Say something?" Now the doctor's courage was failing him. Sherlock was saying nothing, and that either meant that he was in some sort of state of shock, or that John had pitifully misread the situation. Well, he thought grimly, it wouldn't be the first time that week. He just had to soldier on.
"I… I am lost for words, Doctor Watson." John felt his heart sink at the title Sherlock used for him, but then the violinist's lips curved just slightly, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "But we seem to do a better job of communicating wordlessly, this week."
Sherlock moved in slowly, eyes wide open, wanting to see John's reaction as their lips met. He was still surprised when John moaned into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut as they finally, finally, gave in to what had been building between them since the first time they'd met. The kiss was slow and gentle, soft and sweet, and it was everything they had dreamed of deep in the night, terrified to admit wanting out loud for fear of rejection.
It might have stopped there, but it occurred to Sherlock, shortly before his brain quit functioning on anything close to its normal level, that their past kisses had been miserably misconstrued. He wanted to leave no room for doubt of any kind to settle in, for either one of them. The time for all that was over.
Slowly, with the care of someone who'd never initiated anything sexual before in his life that actually meant anything, Sherlock slipped a hand up to the back of John's neck, holding him in place while he flicked his tongue over John's lips, seeking permission in an endearingly shy manner. John's hand slid from his face to his chest, and for one heartbreaking moment, Sherlock feared he was going to push him away. Instead, John's hand fisted in his shirt, pulling him even closer in a rough way that made Sherlock's heart jump.
Sometimes, in his fantasies, things with John were slow and gentle and quiet, as if one quick move or spoken word could rip it all away. Other times, John took control, showed him exactly why he'd been a captain in the army, why he'd earned the moniker "Three-Continents Watson." He shivered with anticipation, wondering which it would be for their first time.
As it happened, John was in the mood for a mixture of the two. When he moved, it was to stand, keeping his lips pressed to Sherlock's while urging him to stand so he could begin the process of getting him out of his clothes. It didn't take much effort; Sherlock wore only his robe and trousers, which were easily disposed with. He'd gone without pants, John realized with a smirk, and he stepped back to the whimpered protest of the detective just long enough to remove his jumper and shirt in one go before pressing up against Sherlock once more.
One of them moaned, neither was honestly sure which, when Sherlock's hands fluttered to John's hips to shove at his trousers, wanting them gone. His pants slid down with them, and John opted to push Sherlock back onto the bed and move between his legs again instead of stepping out of them and staying vertical. Clothes forgotten on the floor, no barriers remained to separate them, and both men made noise when their bare erections touched.
Sherlock would later deny the whimper that left his lips when John began at his neck and worked his way down, kissing and sucking on the easily bruised, almost too-pale skin of his best friend and current lover. He was gentle as he twisted and tugged at Sherlock's nipples before sucking them each into his mouth in turn to lave more affection on them, but not as gentle when he pinned Sherlock's eager hands to the pillow on either side of his head, commanding him with a look to leave them there before sliding lower.
Nearly arching off the bed at the first brush of John's lips and tongue over his already leaking cock, Sherlock closed his eyes tightly shut, afraid to look for fear that he would lose his control at the sight of John bent over him, that tongue sliding over him and doing magic things that made the muscles of his stomach bunch, his bollocks tightening in preparation for what would undoubtedly be the best release of his life.
Instead of letting him come, however, John pulled away just before it could happen, a devilish but shy smile on his face. He crawled back up Sherlock, pressing his lips to the taller man's in a way that was both dominant and caring. He linked their fingers together as he slowly rocked his hips against Sherlock's, until the friction nearly became unbearable for them both. Then he pulled back and found enough air to speak one word.
"Lube?" When Sherlock only let out a hoarse exhalation that John had a feeling was supposed to be a desperate laugh and pointed to the nightstand, he slipped off the bed for a moment before grabbing the packet and opening it, dispensing a generous amount on three fingers of his hand. Slowly, he slipped a finger inside Sherlock to the first knuckle, gasping a little at the way the detective clamped down on him. He murmured soothingly until he relaxed before sliding the whole way in, slowly moving the finger in and out in a way that made Sherlock gasp for breath. When he slid a second finger in, he was a little uncomfortable, but only until those fingertips brushed his prostate, making him cry out.
Struggling to find sanity under the dual onslaught of building pleasure and fleeting pain, Sherlock twitched his hips to take John's fingers deeper into him insistently, making a very unmanly sound when John scissored his fingers deep inside the detective and added a third finger, stretching him slowly enough to make Sherlock want to scream.
"Hurry… Please, John…" He was practically sobbing the words, and his doctor understood perfectly, brushing his prostate one more time before withdrawing his fingers and spreading what remained of the lube on his prick. He lifted Sherlock's legs over his shoulders and slowly slid inside him, and Sherlock started babbling incoherently as John moved, using slow, smooth, deep stokes to drive his detective mad. It wasn't long before the words coming out of Sherlock's mouth weren't words at all, but rather garbled pleas.
Taking that as a cue, John sped up, continuing to thrust deep and brush Sherlock's prostate every time. He moved one of his hands to the raven haired man's cock, stroking up and down at the exact same tempo as his thrusts. It wasn't long, however, before he was moving faster, and even less time before he exploded, his pleasure sending the consulting detective over the edge with him with a strangled cry, quite possibly the sexiest thing John had ever heard.
He came down from the pleasure slowly, easing out of Sherlock before rising to go to the washroom for a wet cloth. When he came back, Sherlock was lying exactly as he'd left him, legs splayed, hands limp beside his head, body covered in a thin sheen of sweat with remnants of cum smeared on his torso. John cleaned him with the cloth, having done the same to himself in the loo, before tossing the cloth to the floor and allowing himself to collapse into bed.
Instantly, Sherlock was there, nuzzling against him and sliding a leg between his, one arm flung over his waist while his head came to rest on John's outstretched arm. There was silence in the room, but for the first time in a long time, John knew the silence wasn't bad. Sherlock didn't need to play his violin to express how he felt. It was in the tender way he cuddled into John—and he would learn over the next several weeks that the consulting detective was extremely cuddly—and fell asleep, trusting his army doctor to watch over him. John grinned. He was, finally, at peace. And he drifted off himself, knowing he wouldn't be encountering any nightmares of his time in the army that night.
The next morning, John awoke alone, and frowned for a moment at the warm dip in the mattress that told him a body had lain there not too long ago. That was until he heard the music.
Rising and soaring, the violin piece expressed perfectly the all-encompassing love and happiness John was feeling, and he realized it was a piece he'd never heard before. Laughing a little, he got out of bed and drew on the trousers he'd left crumpled on the floor the night before, slipping into the hallway and moving into the living room to watch Sherlock play.
Instead of facing the window, Sherlock faced his—their—room, a smile on his face as John stopped a few feet away, listening. Pouring everything he was into the piece, Sherlock let John hear it all, the soul-searing happiness he felt not something he wanted to keep to himself. He wanted John to know, without a doubt, that nothing in him regretted what they'd done the night before. And judging by the way John was smiling back at him, his doctor felt the same.
When the piece finished, they stood there for a long minute, watching one another as Sherlock set the violin aside, a motion so familiar to John that he knew exactly what those long, graceful fingers would look like as they released the instrument. It was beautiful, almost as beautiful as the smile on Sherlock's face, innocence and pleasure melding in a way that would have stolen John's heart had it not belonged to Sherlock from the moment he'd first locked eyes with the consulting detective. And when one of those elegant hands reached for his, John took it without hesitation.
"I love you too," he told Sherlock, not needing verbal communication to understand what Sherlock had been trying to tell him all along. When Sherlock played, he played from the heart. All John had to do was listen.
"If my love for you were a season, it would be an eternal autumn, because I am forever falling for you."