The ebbs and swells of mournful violin emanate from the dim room of a flat in central London. Sherlock Holmes stands, looking out the tall, foggy window at the diminishing figure. An exasperated army doctor stalks swiftly down the street until he hails a cab and disappears.
The detective sighs and puts down his violin, staring into the swirling, inky blackness of his flat. Pale, slender hands are steepled under an equally sallow chin as indescribable, Glasz eyes flit about, mentally cataloging information.
No new clothing or cologne, no attempt to spruce up before hurrying out of the flat. Therefore, no date tonight. Eyes innocent and unconcerned as he entered the room, but soon became accusatory and suspicious upon return from the kitchen. Heavy footfalls indicate agitation, but not anticipation. No conversation whatsoever, just several cross glares on his way back out. Conclusion: I have done something that made him angry or annoyed.
The consulting detective stares at the ceiling as he splays himself out on the couch, trying to remember what he may have done to upset his flatmate. There were no body parts in the counter or even in the fridge, and Sherlock hasn't used corrosive chemicals in over a week. Something else is bothering John, and he has to find out what.
Several long hours later, John Watson returns to the silent flat. He is slightly tipsy, having been to the bar, but still suspicious of the disturbing quiet. Usually there is at least the hum of the radiator or the clink of microscopes slides, but at the moment, there's nothing.
He peeks into the living room, which is lit only by the warm glow of the hallway light. Sherlock is stretched on the sofa, just watching him and analyzing. The detective quickly closes his eyes and feigns sleep as he enters his spacious Mind Palace, not wanting to have to deal with a lightheaded John.
Over the recommended alcohol amount. John would never be foolish enough to become completely drunk, but he had a reason to want to relax and let go. No indication of contact with a woman, nor with friends. Alone at the bar then. Stressed. Nobody to talk to. This is stored away in the spacious, soaring library that is labeled simply John.
More words and phrases are to follow, filling up pages of books in the millions of texts that make up the library. Old, leather-bound tomes hold information, from how John likes his coffee to which section he reads first in the newspaper. Miscellaneous facts are scattered about in their individual classifications, shelves and shelves full, spanning three floors of precious space in the Palace. Everything has to be meticulously catalogued, detailed in extremity, before it can join the library. There is no room for error, as one page out of place or a mislabeled book could send boxes and bookshelves tumbling over and precious memories could be lost forever.
One final phrase tumbles through the detective's mind, being honed down by complicated deductions and analysis. One string of five words that doesn't seem to fit anywhere, yet at the same time fits everywhere. In the end, though, those five words are shoved in a musty box in a disused closet in a secluded row of shelves. In the box are only a few scraps of remembrance and experience, words long since forgotten by the one who spoke them, yet forever inscribed upon threads of memory woven into rags that have been purposefully neglected for all this time. The dust is disturbed in the musty old bin as a new thought and its accompanying image is added; only to be left alone themselves.
In need of a hug.
With that, the tall, slender librarian snakes his way out of the labyrinth of bookshelves, out of the library, down the cold, stone hallway, and fades into reality once more.
Once the haze of deductions and imagination has cleared, Sherlock feels a presence next to him and turns sharply to look at John, who has made his way over to his armchair and is now watching the detective in admiration.
"I've never seen you do that before," he remarks slowly, which reminds Sherlock that the doctor's inhibitions are less than intact. "You looked like you were arranging something," John adds. He is suddenly embarrassed, as though he has walked in on something intimate that only Sherlock understands.
"Why did you leave?" Sherlock demands abruptly, uncomfortable at the level of scrutiny. "What did I do wrong this time?"
John shakes his head, as though ridding himself of the discomfort that the detective's words had caused him. "Nothing. It doesn't matter now," he sighs as he rises from the armchair. "'Night."
"Goodnight, John," Sherlock whispers long after the doctor has ascended the staircase. "And I'm sorry for whatever I did."
The next morning, a slightly more tousled Sherlock flaps around the flat with his silky, royal blue dressing gown flowing around his thin frame. It is a normal Sunday morning, with experiments being conducted in the kitchen and the bustle of traffic outside. The hiss of the shower indicates that John is preparing for the day.
When the doctor emerges, Sherlock is perched in his leather chair, light streaming over his angular face while dust motes dance in the sunbeams. He studies the detective, who is silhouetted in the warm light, trying to recall last night's events though his hazy headache. Anger. Not at Sherlock, but about him. John remembers the surreality of Sherlock's motions while in the Mind Palace, as though he were a mime who was only partially in control of his signals. He had walked in on a man lying in the dark who had hardly moved since the doctor had left, hadn't even bothered to put his violin away.
As if on cue, Sherlock sweeps himself up from the chair and strides over to the window, picking up his shining instrument and its bow. The first several measures are beautiful and peaceful, but as the song progresses, it becomes more yearning and desperate. The crooning notes fill the air, thinner than spider webs, wrapping around everything in the flat. When the melody finally ceases after many long minutes of song, the detective places his violin in its case and turns to leave the room.
"What was that song called?" John asked curiously, in awe of the detective.
Sherlock glides over to the door silently and responds, "John." Then he's gone.
The namesake of the lonely song slouches in his own armchair and sighs deeply, running his hand over his face. God, does this mean what he thinks it does? Sherlock doesn't feel things that way, does he? There was the incident with Irene, but that was just a passing phase, wasn't it?
John sighs and closes his eyes, mentally kicking himself. You're straight, John Watson. Don't go doubting yourself now. He opens his eyes, scowling, and stomps up the stairs to his bedroom, slamming his door angrily.
On the floor below, the detective is having a similar problem. Feelings are a distraction, Sherlock reminds himself. Caring is not an advantage.
There's still that nagging sensation, though, that tightening right over his heart, when he thinks of John. The way he gets shivers between his shoulder blades whenever he looks at the doctor makes him both scorchingly hot and icily frigid at the same time. It has never been a pleasant sensation, but maybe it could be one day.
Sherlock's heart is a rusty, tarnished automaton that has been as close to unused as figuratively possible. Only the vital gears have shifted over the years, clicking in place only when necessary. Every person who has touched the detective's heart has left his or her own etching upon the precious metal. The mineral is too hard, though, for many people to gouge, and so far only one had made its way deep enough to be felt.
John.
It is several days after the violin incident, and the two men sit placidly in the dimly-lit living room, the doctor reading the newspaper and the detective writing up notes on his computer. John looks up surreptitiously from his article at Sherlock, whose eyes are quietly flitting across the glowing computer screen. Icy eyes meet deep blue ones, and both snap back to their respective media surfaces.
John feels his cheeks scorching, knowing what it must have looked like to Sherlock. He grits his teeth, mentally slapping himself, and flings down the paper angrily.
"I'm going out," John declares, jumping out of his chair. Those same Glasz eyes follow him across the room, calculating and synthesizing information.
"John-" Sherlock begins, but he is cut off.
"No, Sherlock! Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong, okay?" the army doctor shouts from the doorway. His words are punctuated by the slamming of the wooden door.
Sherlock sighs dejectedly and sinks back in his chair, mentally cursing John for being so difficult. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that John was in such a bad mood these days...oh. The detective recalls the memories he has stored in his neat little cupboards in his Mind Palace, words and images floating in front of his vision.
John, always John, the one man who matters. The one who puts up with him on a daily basis, makes sure he's fed, stops him from using drugs, helps with cases, along with everything else. The one who has made him human.
John walks in later that day, having spent the majority of his morning sitting in a small café mulling things over. The brilliant detective is asleep on the couch once again, though this time lying linearly rather than in a tangle of lanky limbs. His bare feet stick out to the end of the sofa, poking out of his slim-cut dress pants. Sherlock's expensive, plum-colored shirt is tucked neatly into the waistline of his trousers, finished off with a leather belt. Navy silk flows off of the detective's shoulders and drapes elegantly down the side of the couch.
John turns to leave, smiling to himself, when Sherlock murmurs something that vaguely resembles the doctor's name. He whirls around, but the detective is still sound asleep. His fingers twitch quickly, as though he were playing the piano, one hand on his stomach and the other palm-up on the couch. They fidget in rapid succession, though not in unison, and John is transfixed. Abruptly, the hand that had rested on the detective's abdomen reaches up as if to push something into place before flopping back down to rest in its original position.
Sherlock mutters something else, which is very garbled, before reaching out and calling, "John!". The doctor is startled, and looks closely at the detective to be sure that he is really asleep and not fooling him. Those beautiful, sharp, piercing eyes dart back and forth under porcelain eyelids, indicating that Sherlock is enveloped in an intense dream.
God, he's perfect, John thinks, and is astounded by his own observation. Of course he is, he's Sherlock bloody Holmes, the one man who matters. Quickly, before he has time to chicken out, the army doctor places a warm, gentle kiss to the detective's cool forehead.
The lonely librarian is in his Mind Palace once more, but something is different this time. It's as though there is a presence, intangible and invisible, but it is still there. As Sherlock winds his way through the shelves and stacks of books, he can feel the aura behind him, floating right at his back. It is comfortable. He isn't solitary anymore, but he still doesn't have company. The wisp is silent and imperceptible, yet it is still there.
The detective strides over to the center of the soaring library, followed by the presence. It is so familiar, so perfect. It feels like home.
As he veers to the formerly abandoned corner of the library where the dusty box is kept, the wisp trails behind him still, but if anything, it's getting...warmer? He takes the aged carton out of its slot and simply holds it in his hands. There is no purpose for the action; he just presses it to his bony chest, feeling the thump of the tarnished automaton within. Sherlock's fingers constrict around the corners of the box, remembering all of the beautiful memories he had stored away for so long.
He recalls John grabbing his hand while they sprinted down that dank alley away from the police. The detective remembers the thumping of the doctor's heart under the bomb vest as he rips it off, wishing it could be John's clothes that he threw across the room before Moriarty returned. He summons one of the most painful memories of all, John at Sherlock's grave, begging him for one more miracle. And he remembers the best moment of his life: watching John's eyes widen as Sherlock revealed himself after years of waiting (true, several punches and endless swear words followed, but it is still the most treasured memory he has).
Suddenly, there is warmth on his cheeks, a feeling as though he is being caressed in an alternate universe, and he feels a pressure on his forehead. It is soft, something Sherlock has only rarely experienced, but he knows what it is. His eyes snap open to the cozy darkness of the flat, and he hears John's gentle footsteps padding away, watches his shadow in the hallway as he slowly ascends the stairs.
The detective places a wondering hand to his long, flawless forehead, marveling at what has just occurred. His fingers trace the outline of where John's lips had been just seconds previously, memorizing the pattern and storing it in that dusty box in the corner of his Mind Palace to join with the other unmentioned memories.
Several weeks later, Sherlock and John are relaxing in the living room after a particularly interesting case. They have just eaten dinner, and are each in their respective positions in the room. John is huddled in his armchair, drinking his tea and reading a novel that Sherlock has determined as "dull" and "predictable". The younger man is curled, spider-like, in his leather chair, fingers drumming rhythmically on the edge of his expensive laptop. Every so often, he will turn to his casebook and jot down a few notes in his scribbly handwriting, but aside from that, the room is nearly still.
John breaks the companionable silence moments later. "Sherlock, can I ask you something?"
"Obviously," the detective responds, but there is a smile in his voice.
"Have you ever... you know, gone out with anybody?" the older man asks curiously.
Sherlock shakes his head absentmindedly as he looks back to his laptop, unconcerned with what John has just asked.
"Um, okay," John says warily. "Because I was wondering whether you'd like to go out with me."
Sherlock's head snaps up, his eyes calculating the doctor's face, searching for the socially acceptable answer. Yes, yes, yes! screams his mind, and he scowls at his own thoughts.
John interprets this completely differently. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I didn't mean-" he manages before he escapes up the stairs and slams his door.
Stupid, he tells himself angrily, good work, messing up the only friendship you've had in a while. How's that for platonic? To the good doctor's surprise, he feels a hot wetness on his cheeks, tracing down his clean-shaven chin. John wipes the tears away furiously, telling himself to keep it together.
While John mentally berates himself for his actions, the detective slinks silently up the stairs and stops on the landing, unsure of what to do next. Is it acceptable to open the door without warning, or must one knock before letting oneself in?
Sherlock chooses the former, deciding that it doesn't matter either way, and that John will understand. He grasps the handle and twists the cold metal, opening the door slowly. He isn't prepared for or expecting the sight before him.
John is curled on the end of his bed, his head in his hands. When he turns to look at Sherlock, his face is damp and slightly reddish and blotchy.
"Go away," John spits bitterly, whirling away from Sherlock's surprised face and wiping his tears angrily once more.
"But John-"
"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry, okay? It was stupid and I wasn't thinking and I'm sorry that I just screwed up our whole relationship. I've never identified as anything other than straight, and that's why I was so mad earlier. I didn't want to mess up what we have," John snaps furiously. He crosses his arms and glares at Sherlock, clearly encouraging him to leave at once, but as usual, the detective doesn't get the hint. Instead, he pads softly over to the older man's bed and sinks down next to him.
John looks to Sherlock with red-rimmed eyes, confused and still defeated. The younger man reaches over as the bed springs creak and squeal under the new weight. Sherlock wraps his arms awkwardly around John's shoulders in what is designed to be a comforting hug rather than a straitjacket-like attack.
"Sorry about that," the detective apologizes as he realizes how uncomfortable it is for both of them. He pulls back, embarrassed, and sits on his heels on the green plaid comforter that is draped over John's bed.
"Do you want to talk? I'm not excellent at matters of the heart, but perhaps I can be of assistance," Sherlock offers, trying to be helpful. His words are met with a rueful smile and a slight, hesitant shake of the head.
"No, it's nothing," John sighs quietly, knowing full well what's coming next.
"I'll have to deduce you, then," Sherlock states simply. "As I was sleeping several weeks ago, you placed either a kiss or a caress on my forehead. Generally, this is reserved for couples or people who love each other. Just moments ago, you asked me whether I wanted to date you, which is also an indication of desire. Therefore, it is evident to me that you harbor feelings of that ilk towards me, which, to be honest, is quite a relief."
"Relief?" John asks, wondering if he had heard incorrectly.
"Yes, of course. You see, I realized quite a long time ago how I felt about such matters with you. However, as I said, I am not well versed in matters of the heart, so I was unsure of how to tell you," Sherlock admits unabashedly.
John just stares open-mouthed at his flatmate, or partner, or whatever he is.
"So John, I was wondering, would you mind it terribly if I were to kiss you now?" Sherlock asks softly, hope evident in his voice. His eyes flit back and forth between John's, and occasionally down to his soft, thin lips.
The doctor grins. "Of course you can."
Sherlock leans over once more, planting his long, spindly hands on the bed on either side of John's legs and tenderly places his lips to the doctor's. It is unlike anything Sherlock has ever experienced, better than drugs, better than mysterious murders. All that matters is that his lips are on John's and that they are the only two in the world.