Sherlock is late. John knows it, as well as the bloody consulting detective. He is supposed to be home two hours ago and he isn't answering his phone. John sits in the arm chair, looking at the window as if it can show him where Sherlock is. For all he knows, Sherlock is dead.
Pounding on the stairs, too heavy to be Mrs. Hudson, reverberates through the air. The detective steps into his flat, hair askew and scarf loose. His eyes dart to John, first in alarm as if he is expecting someone else, and then in quiet familiarity. Sherlock examines him for two seconds- yes, electric shaver he nicked himself on this morning, combed hair, toe tapping in anxiety, wounded shoulder from battle a little more angular than the other, small cut on his left index finger, but something is off. His pupils are dilated. Sherlock chalks it up because John turns on the lamp when he walks in, but he knows it is because of something else.
Sherlock turns away before he can see any more in the doctor's eyes. The good part about being Sherlock Holmes is seeing everything. This is also the worst part. He opens the fridge. Now that his work is done, he is starved.
"Are you going to tell me where you've been?" John asks. Slight tremor, Sherlock detected. He grabs two slices of bread next to the decaying human head, and places them in the toaster. Sherlock notes a scratch on the counter, possibly from when John cut his finger preparing dinner. Dinner, Sherlock realized, about half an hour ago that John has to make by himself, without him there. He is nervous or scared for Sherlock. By the faint smell of meat well-done- just as John likes his steaks- it is no more than half an hour ago.
He didn't want to turn around to face John. He knows John isn't as perceptive as he is, but he doesn't want his face to give away anything. He turns around anyway because being anxious is not his field of division.
"I was out." He says, allowing John to mull that over. John is standing on the opposite sound of the counter, mouth agape. Sherlock smells the air again, "you made coffee. You expected me to be late."
"I don't like falling asleep waiting up for you," John answers, widening his stance. Sherlock attachs the gesture with confidence and aggression. Something about tonight is important to John, but what?
"You don't enjoy falling asleep regardless," Sherlock quips, turning to take his toast from the toaster. He reaches up to the second cabinet. Sherlock always left jam in the first cabinet with the other spreads, but John had it this morning with his breakfast, and he always puts it in the second. "More nightmares?"
"Always."
"Yes, of course," Sherlock snips, spreading the jam on his toast with a knife. "You wake up panting with words dying on your lips. You sweat a lot in your sleep, so you wash them, which is why they smell so fresh."
"It gets irritating, but at least they smell nice," John grumbles.
"What is it this time, John? The bodies, Afghanistan, or another man's blood on your hands?" He speaks as he puts the jam away. Everything about him is fluid, as if he is just water in the shape of a man, or a cat, always sure of its movements.
"You."
"What about me?" Sherlock answers, but he feels as if his heart stutters to a halt. He thinks back to the wide pupils, he'd imagine forty five percent wider, and realizes its attraction. The facts are right in front of him, but maybe he is just imagining it.
But he is Sherlock Holmes, and he knows he is not wrong.
"I dream of you dying." It's the way that John utters it, the simple tone in his voice, drawing it out because he knows it is dreary news. It's the way his lips make the words form that Sherlock must look up to see his face. And then Sherlock gazes at him, really does, his wrinkled skin, his salt and pepper hair that is more salt than pepper, his nose that seems to stand out then the rest of him. His eyes are round and wide, lips wet because he keeps licking them in anxiety. Sherlock noticed the habit the second day they knew each other.
They stare at each other for a moment, letting John's words settle like dust. But what John says can't just rest on the books and the skull on the mantle. Even so, it is what he does not say, the silence that follows. It is too huge, too beneficial to something greater that Sherlock can't see. Not being able to see frustrates him.
Sherlock takes off his coat, in his haste he forgot to do it before. He moves around John, something in him snapping forward and then wriggling back. He hangs his coat near the door, then his scarf, until he is in his wrinkle-free suit. John is in the same spot, except now he's facing Sherlock. The toast is long forgotten.
"How long have you felt this affectionate toward me?" Sherlock asks, his words sticking to his mouth like glue. He might as well get it out.
"Our first case," John answers. A Study in Pink, Sherlock thinks back to momentarily. Interesting. Sherlock tries to think logically, without the inhibitions emotions bring. But he can't. Every time he stares at John the blasted emotions get in his way.
"Say something, Sherlock."
Sherlock thinks he says something, but he is already writhing back into his brain. He is no longer with John, but in his mind, thinking of solutions to what seems to be a simple problem, listing the facts and details, probability of errors, etc.
Sherlock doesn't know how long it's been, but suddenly the door is shutting. He sees John walk into the flat. Sherlock is laying on the couch.
"Where have you been?" Sherlock questions even though he knows the answer. John is breathing heavier, his blood pumping with a short dosage of alcohol. Only a .05, he calculates. His hand is in his coat pocket, where a bulge is. His wallet. He recently took it out for payment, which meant he took a cab. The closest pub is only half a mile, which means John didn't feel well enough to walk.
"Out, you didn't notice?" Sherlock opens his mouth, but before he can spew out his dialogue, John cuts him off, "forget it. Of course you didn't. I'm hitting the sack." John turns to go to bed. And then Sherlock detects the anger in his voice. Anger, a secondary emotion, related to hurt. He stands suddenly and stares at John's retreating form.
"John," he calls. John turns. "Come here."
John pauses, but finally takes the few steps toward Sherlock until he is only a few feet from him. They both look at each other, John's gaze darty and Sherlock's steady. Sherlock thinks over what he is about to say, sure that he will not stutter or pause. His words must come out quick and concise.
"Your feelings toward me are unfortunately mutual, and I must note that this is not beneficial in any way. There is no point in having these feelings, so I suggest we abandon this foolery and focus on what we are best at; solving crimes." There, he said it. The faster it is over, the better. Sherlock doesn't like how his stomach drops and how he can hear his heart beating in his ears. He doesn't like the way John is utterly crushed, like he is collapsing into himself.
"Oh, Sherlock, it means everything," John utters, and then he is advancing toward Sherlock. The detective's eyebrows furrows in befuddlement. He is not sure how to react as John grabs his lapels and pulls him closer. Sherlock looks down at him like a bug under his shoe.
"Do you want this?" John wonders, and for a moment there is uncertainty in his eyes, as if he expects Sherlock to walk away. It's what Sherlock thinks he will do, but he doesn't. Instead his body nods, like that was its plan all along.
John reaches up, and his lips touch Sherlock's. The doctor's eyes are closed, and his face is so close to the detective's. Sherlock watches John's face as he is kissing him. His mind is drawing a complete blank. He has never been kissed before. He saw it sometimes on the street, but seeing was very different than doing.
And that, Sherlock realized, was very different. Sherlock saw what other people did and the way they did them, always in his head. Now he wanted to do something, and it involved John.
Sherlock follows John's lead as they kiss, his eyes fluttering closed. He is not thinking, not analyzing the situation, just doing. He pulls John closer and wraps his arms around him until they are a tangle of arms and tongue. Sherlock has an insatiable feeling in his core, like he needs more. It is not a want, it is a need, for John.
John did not have nightmares that night.