1.
"I'm not eating dinner unless you eat something."
John didn't expect the ultimatum to work, but to his surprise, Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes and got his coat.
"This is ridiculous. I hope you realise that."
John shook his head, shrugging into his jacket and following Sherlock down the stairs. "You choose the restaurant. Might help you to actually put some food in your mouth."
"I am above such petty decisions," Sherlock replied, almost masking his smile.
"If you're going to be purposefully difficult I'll make you eat a kebab."
"You wouldn't dare."
John shrugged. "Your choice. Come on."
"Nonsense. I'm paying, therefore it's up to you to choose the venue."
"You're paying, are you?" John teased. "This a date, then?"
Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned to look at his flatmate. He stared into John's face, expression unreadable (which wasn't saying much, really, John reasoned, considering the fact that Sherlock's mind, and usually his expressions, inhabited a higher plane than most people's). He lifted his hand and carefully traced the line of John's jaw, his thin fingers drifting as lightly as possible along the skin. John was too stunned to react immediately. Eventually, his brain sparked back into life and he opened his mouth to ask Sherlock just what he thought he was doing, I'm your bloody flatmate for Christ's sake, not your boyfriend, although I admit I have entertained the possibility before but there's that married to your work bollocks to contend with -
Sherlock smiled, his hand resting at the corner of John's mouth. "Stop thinking," he said, and kissed John on the lips.
Sherlock kissed John like he was made of glass, like he was some sort of religious icon that required careful handling. John had never been kissed like that before. It wasn't bad, in all honesty. Until he remembered that this was Sherlock, this was something he had placed outside the realm of possibility entirely, something he'd respectfully decided not to think about, given their conversation on the subject.
This was everything John had hoped for.
When Sherlock pulled away, his hand cupping the back of John's head, John could feel himself blushing. The realisation only made him blush more.
Sherlock smiled triumphantly at John's gobsmacked expression, before turning and striding down the street. "Just in case there was any doubt," he threw over his shoulder, "it is a date. You're paying for the next one."
…
2.
The crashing and thumping that emanated from Sherlock's room was a sufficient warning that his brilliant mind was, once again, rebelling at stagnation. John took advantage of the advance warning and hid his gun securely in a shoe at the back of his wardrobe. If Sherlock was in the mood for finding it, he would probably know where it was straight away, but even the great Sherlock Holmes was no match for the bottom of John's closet.
John sat in the lounge and tried to ignore the noise. After an hour or so, he realised that he had either become so adept at tuning out the racket that he could no longer hear it, or the tantrum had actually stopped. He hoped it was the latter, but you never could tell with Sherlock. John hated to think what his flatmate was getting up to in there.
After a few minutes of precious silence, Sherlock appeared in the doorway of the lounge. He never simply walked around the flat. He would loom, or stride about with his coat flapping around him, or climb over the furniture as though it had been placed there solely for his own personal discomfort. Sherlock entered rooms by appearing in the doorway, giving no indication that he had actually walked down the hall to get there.
This time, standing in the doorway, Sherlock looked like a disgraced child. His hair was a mess and his dressing gown hung off one shoulder, exposing a t-shirt that had certainly seen better days. Sherlock stomped across the lounge, petulant, expecting attention that his flatmate was in no mood to give. John slouched further down in his chair and stared at his laptop screen, attempting to give the impression that he hadn't noticed Sherlock's dramatic entrance. The fact that Sherlock had actually moved from one room to another meant that the black mood was almost over, and pretty soon he would be close to reasonable again. As moods went, this hadn't been a particularly bad one.
"John."
John didn't look up. Sherlock was staring down at him expectantly, waiting for him to react, to do anything, really. If he looked up, John knew, Sherlock would attempt to engage him in some sort of petty argument, an argument which usually resulted in one or both of them storming from the flat. This time, though, John was determined not to let the great mind get to him.
"John."
John frowned and shifted in his chair. He had been staring at the same news article on his screen for the past thirty seconds, hoping that if he at least looked busy Sherlock would leave him alone. A man can dream.
"John, I know you're not actually reading, your pretence is pathetic and unimaginative, so the least you can do is lower yourself to talk to me."
To his eternal shame, John actually jumped when Sherlock snatched the laptop out of his hands. He was about to shout at the other man - really, just because Sherlock Holmes is in a bad mood doesn't mean the rest of us have to bend to his every whim, you're so self-centred, Sherlock - when Sherlock loomed forward and plopped himself in John's lap.
"Sherlock, what are you -"
"Shut up."
By the time John's legs went numb, Sherlock's mood had all but evaporated.
…
3.
The first time it happened, it was over breakfast.
Sherlock had actually deigned to have breakfast that morning, after John had insisted, cajoled, threatened and outright pleaded with him to actually eat something. "Look, Sherlock, I don't give a damn if you're in the middle of the most important case of your life, if you don't sit down and eat at least a bite or two then I'll tell Mrs. Hudson about the incident with the microwave last week."
The consulting detective sat sulkily at the far end of the table, picking at a piece of toast. He sipped at his mug of coffee and made a face.
"Darling, could you pass the sugar?"
John blinked at Sherlock for a moment, while he tried to work out whether his ears were deceiving him, or if that actually was a term of endearment that had just passed his flatmate's lips.
Sherlock looked up from his toast. "I said could you pass the sugar."
"So you were talking to me, then?"
"Of course I was talking to you, John, there's nobody else here. Sometimes your supreme idiocy is really a wonder to behold."
John pushed the sugar bowl towards Sherlock, agreeing good-naturedly with the insults being hurled at him. It was a small price to pay for the occasional 'darling'.
…
4.
The case had been a particularly long and trying one for all involved. John could see that Lestrade was within moments of snapping at Sherlock, who in turn had already made several not-altogether-necessary comments about the competence of the Yard and its leadership. Sally was just waiting for the perfect moment to make a snide comment about Sherlock's own abilities.
Sherlock paced about Lestrade's office, gesticulating and repeating the known facts of the case to anyone who'd listen. There was something missing, something not quite right, why couldn't he see it, it was so simple...
Before Sally could open her mouth to comment on this last point, John put a restraining hand on her forearm. "I don't think this is really the time."
She sighed. "You're right. Sorry. Just the stress getting to me."
"Yeah, I know what you mean," John replied, but his platitude was cut short by a loud exclamation from the pacing Sherlock.
"Of course, how could I have been so stupid, of course it's the brother, he has a prosthetic arm, remember?" He grasped John's shoulders as he recited, finally, the way in which the crime had been committed. Since the kissing incident, and the related shagging and cuddling incidents, Sherlock had shown an almost endearing tendency to grab at John when he was in the throes of an intellectual breakthrough.
Of course, he had never yet flung his arms around John's waist, lifted him up and spun him in a circle before depositing him back on the ground and acting as if such an event were perfectly normal.
John cleared his throat and glared at Sally, defying her to say anything. He could hear Lestrade behind him attempting not to laugh. He looked at his feet. He had never really studied the carpet in Lestrade's office before, it was quite nice.
Sherlock was looking at the three of them like they'd gone mad. "Well, go on, you've got a murderer to arrest," he told Lestrade. "No point hanging about sniggering."
"Right, of course," Lestrade replied, composing himself. "Come on, then, Sergeant Donovan."
The two of them left the office, Sally's delighted laugh finally escaping her lips as the door swung shut.
John looked at Sherlock, who in turn was looking very pleased with himself. "Don't," John began, "don't ever do that again, alright?"
Sherlock smirked. "In moments such as that I have little control over my actions."
John rolled his eyes. Kissing was one thing, but bodily lifting and spinning was quite another. "I'm not a child, you know, you can't just do things like that."
Sherlock raised one infuriating eyebrow and John resumed his detailed study of the carpet.
"Not in public, anyway," he muttered.
…
5.
Three years.
Three fucking years.
Three endless, horrible, empty, lifeless fucking years and suddenly Sherlock is standing in the doorway again. Appearing. Just like he used to.
Just like John had hoped he would.
Just like he should have done three fucking years ago, Jesus, Sherlock, what the fuck did you think you were playing at?
"John."
John can't think, can't cope with this, this sudden intrusion of all his dreams into his reality.
"John, I -"
"You utter fucking wanker."
It isn't what he planned to say, but it's the only thing he can say, the only thing that adequately sums up his feelings.
"I had to."
"Had to, shit. You died. You left."
They are standing at opposite ends of the room, John gripping the back of Sherlock's chair, Sherlock standing, just standing, in that fucking coat and a new scarf, John knows it must be new because his old one is under John's pillow where it's been ever since Sherlock died. The scarf is a darker blue, and it rests against the pale skin of Sherlock's throat so that every time Sherlock swallows, his Adam's apple bobs out of sight behind the wool, and John has an overwhelming desire to kiss that skin and feel Sherlock's pulse under his mouth.
"It was the only option," Sherlock says, and he is swallowing more rapidly now, as if he's struggling to contain himself, and John thinks he can see moisture in the corners of the detective's eyes, and he tells himself not to cry but telling himself has never really worked, and then Sherlock is walking towards him, and he is saying something but all John can focus on is that fucking throat wrapped in that fucking scarf, and Sherlock tells him to stop crying, this is hard enough as it is, and John tells him to fuck off, that it was better when he was dead, and then the gap between them closes, finally, after an eternity, and John is lost in Sherlock's hands and Sherlock's tears and Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock's tongue and Sherlock.
"I hate you," John says in between kisses. And, "don't do that again" and "you fucking bastard" and "I love you."
…
+1.
John usually gets up before Sherlock. Sherlock has gotten used to his partner's absence in the mornings, knows that the lack of warmth beside him is in some way retribution for that time he pretended to be dead.
Sherlock usually wanders into the kitchen to find John drinking a cup of tea. There is always a mug of coffee waiting for Sherlock. It always has just enough sugar.
Today, though, the mug is sitting on the dressing table next to the bed. There is also a small, felt-covered box with a note attached.
Sherlock, highly concerned at this alteration in the routine, snatches up the box. Inside is a ring, a simple silver band. It fits Sherlock perfectly.
The note reads:
If you don't say yes, I'll bloody well kill you myself.