It feels like a lifetime has passed, so many things have changed, and yet, all John has to do is look up, and there they are – those eyes, staring at him, small wrinkles at their edges that say Sherlock knows exactly why John is looking at him now.
The first time it happened, it was just them, in 221B late one night, laughing over Chinese and crap telly. John was trying to explain the finer points of watching horrible talk shows.
"It's not about our reactions, Sherlock." He grinned as a bit of his wine sloshed over the rim of the glass. "It's about the girl's reaction. That's what makes it fun!"
Sherlock snorted. "Yes, fun, watching young women make idiots of themselves on television."
"Hey hey now, sometimes the guy looks like a ponce because it turns out, he really is the baby daddy."
Sherlock groaned. "Never again say those two words in that precise order, John."
John giggled. "Try and stop me."
His head was resting against the back of the sofa, and he turned to look at Sherlock, who'd gone quite still and silent. "Sh… Sherlock?"
John blinked, and Sherlock was kissing him.
It might have been the wine – in vino veritas, as they said – but it felt right and perfect even though it was sloppy, messy, and poorly executed.
When Sherlock pulled back, John shifted, setting his drink and food down. Sherlock set his own plate on the table, waiting patiently for John to work through this.
It didn't take long – perhaps fifteen seconds – and then John was pressing Sherlock down and climbing on top of him, fingers carding clumsily through his curls, his mouth working at Sherlock's jaw, his neck, sucking and licking and Sherlock was making the most wonderful sounds beneath him, it was almost too much.
"John…"
"Sher… Sherlock, fuck, why didn't… you should have said…"
Sherlock's hands were fisted in John's hair now, his eyes squeezed tight shut and his breath coming in little gasps each time John moved against him.
They barely made it to the bedroom, John still giggling drunkenly and Sherlock's eyes wide and amazed, as though he were seeing John for the first time, really. Their clothes were scattered along the hallway, victims of a fabric genocide.
John didn't remember everything from that night. But he remembered flashes.
He remembered Sherlock's smile – his real, honest, private smile, a smile John was sure he'd never seen bestowed upon anyone else.
He remembered the way Sherlock had clung to him, helping him figure out just how this would work, moving their bodies together.
He remembered the flush that crept over Sherlock's entire body as John thrust in and out of him, the way he bit his lower lip and the way he moaned John's name over and over.
He remembered the way Sherlock had felt as he brought himself off just as John began to climax, the thrilling feeling of their simultaneous orgasms.
He remembered collapsing next to Sherlock and pulling him close, and waking up to see him still there, his skin still warm and the bed sticky and messy because they'd both been too tired to clean up.
And most of all, he remembered those eyes, throughout all of it, those eyes staring into his, and John was certain he'd never have to say anything again, because Sherlock just seemed to know.
He'd gotten up and decided to make breakfast. When he'd finished the eggs, he'd turned around and Sherlock was standing there, watching him. They'd stared at each other for a moment, before Sherlock smirked and shuffled off into the sitting room. John heard the paper open, and he grinned.
The second time it happened was five days later, when they'd been kneeling over a dead body. A hooker who'd been slashed up, very Jack-the Ripper, and John had been examining the defensive wounds on her arms. He'd finished, stood up, and there was Sherlock, watching him. John stared at him for a few moments, and Sherlock nodded.
They'd given Lestrade everything they could, though of course Lestrade knew that there was something Sherlock wasn't completely explaining. John had just shrugged, apologized, and followed Sherlock out of the scene.
The cab ride home was silent, but Sherlock reached out and took John's hand. John squeezed it and closed his eyes.
Once home, Sherlock had ordered Thai, and handed John a tumbler with a little too much whiskey, and sat down next to him on the couch.
"It wasn't Harry, you know."
"I know." John gulped nearly half the whiskey. "Doesn't mean I don't get freaked out when I see a dead girl who looks like her."
Their Thai arrived, and they ate in silence, and after it Sherlock pulled John down on top of him and just held him, just let him shake and sob a little as he tried to erase the image of his sister that had transposed itself over the dead hooker.
When John had composed himself, he got up and walked into the bathroom, grabbing the flannel and washing his face, taking long, slow, calming breaths. When he stepped back out, Sherlock was at the end of the hallway. Their eyes met, and John smiled faintly. Sherlock nodded, and followed him into the bedroom.
The third time it happened was when they were summoned by Mycroft one evening. Sherlock had scoffed at Anthea, but he let John into the car and they rode along, Sherlock looking out the window and keeping silent.
Mycroft was at The Diogenes Club, of course, and they were escorted to the Strangers Room.
"Glad you could come, Sherlock. John."
"Hardly gave us much choice, sending dear Anthea. Tell me, Mycroft, is the phone really so difficult for you to use?"
Mycroft smiled and gestured for them to sit. They did, and John glanced over, seeing Sherlock's eyes locked on his. He chuckled, and Sherlock smiled, and Mycroft sat there looking cross and confused for several moments. It was one of the best moments John could remember with him.
The fourth time it happened, he's standing in New Scotland Yard, looking over cubicles and desks, to where Sherlock is chatting with someone who works in the evidence locker. The girl is young and reminds him a great deal of Molly, they way she keeps tucking her hair behind her ear as she talks to Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes dart up and John smiles, letting his eyes rove quickly over Sherlock's face, taking in the way he looks, the way his mouth is set and the way his eyes don't crinkle when he smiles at this girl.
John looks at him and knows. And Sherlock looks at him and knows. Here, surrounded by some of the finest detectives in the country, they speak without saying a word, and no one has any idea.
They grab a cab, and John reaches out for Sherlock's hand. "Cracked the case, then?"
"It was quite obvious who the murderer was once I knew about the necklace."
"Chinese?"
"I was thinking Angelo's."
John nodded. "It's been a while, we should go see him. His niece just got married."
"Fascinating, John."
"Shut-up, Sherlock."
Sherlock chuckles, and John squeezes his hand.
Angelo's is crowded, but Billy seats them quickly, and they talk about mostly nothing as Angelo walks up. Sherlock asks after his niece and Angelo is thrilled, talking about what a good influence John has been and how Sherlock should have settled down with him years ago. John smiles and ducks his head, looking up through his lashes as Sherlock blushes faintly.
Angelo finishes making his fuss over them, heading back into the kitchen, and John reaches across the table, taking Sherlock's right hand.
"You know, Angelo was right about one thing."
John looked up at him and smiled. "Oh?"
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, and John had a moment of realization before he felt something slide onto his ring finger. He looked down and saw a simple, silver band. He looked back at Sherlock, and he saw the question there just as plain as it had been before the ring had come out.
Then he was pulling his chair around and kissing him.
"Yes, you great idiot, yes."
He pulls back and stares into Sherlock's eyes, which say more than words ever could.