No and Yes, a sherlock fanfic

Well hi!

I've always really liked the "5 times plus 1 time" format thing, and I got inspired for this particular one of my own after reading various Avenger and Sherlock related ones, and also from an RP my friends and I are doing. Yep.

So here is my own and very first contribution to the Sherlock world! Yayayay, it's quite exciting really.

I apologize in advance for any mistakes and I thank you in advance for reading! :D

Warnings: copious fluff, vague slash, vague Reichenbach spoilers, a little tiny bit of Johnlock, and small amounts of Sherlock/Irene

Five Times Sherlock Said No and the One Time He Said Yes

Sherlock Holmes is sitting at the kitchen table, reading up on poisonous plants for the latest case from the Yard. He is carefully cataloguing the information he scans and storing it away for later use. John Watson sits presently in the cozy living room, unable to see Sherlock. He is sipping tea and reading the paper and attempting to not blow up from the normalcy of it all. It's only been three months since the heavenly return but it is not at all what John had hoped for. John shakes his head, though, turns the page and rustles the paper and settles into the next article, trying to remain peaceful.

"John," Sherlock calls out almost dreamily, "calm yourself." This is the first time either has spoken in a few hours and John suddenly had had violent death-related flashbacks. But John hears these words and gets up from his chair (leg still a bit of a pain again) and stops to watch Sherlock a moment.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"I could practically feel your panic and hear you thinking," Sherlock replies. "Time has passed and I have assured you all I will remain for quite a while. I don't understand why you are still so concerned."

John barely stops himself from shouting obscenities at the man and from laughing hysterically. He responds with a, "Sherlock, I just worry. You worry me. I am annoyed I am so concerned for you when it's obvious you're not on the same boat with me."

"That is now what I meant," Sherlock says, "but all right."

John sighs and shakes his head and turns to leave until he suddenly hears Sherlock hiss in pain. John sees a forming red blotch on his hands and knows Sherlock burnt himself again. The plants are left alone and sad while Sherlock tries to tend to his own wound. John can tell he doesn't quite have a grip on the faucet handle, since his other good hand is covered in some type of clear goo. John steps up to help by grabbing a few bandages. He reaches out for Sherlock's wrist, but he snakes away before John can grasp him.

"No, John," Sherlock says, quietly. "I am fine and do not require assistance.

John drops it and leaves Sherlock alone.

"You're in over your head with this, Sherlock," John cries, exhausted and annoyed he is still awake. He looks at Sherlock, whose head is almost touching the ground while his legs stick straight up into the air, as he is upside down in his chair. He looks up at his frowning flatmate.

"We have nothing to worry about," he casually responds.

"Sherlock, a large portion of the mob wants to see your limbs in various crates shipped around the world. I think we have a few things to worry about."

"They're too stupid and large to lay a finger on me."

"Explain all that bruising on your chest, then? You walked into their fists, huh?"

"John, be quiet. You'll wake Mrs. Hudson."

"Yeah, the mob's machine guns sure will lull her right back to sleep!"

"John, we have been up against worse before." What that was, though, Sherlock does not say. "We were extremely limited in numbers then, too. We have all of Scotland Yard working for us now. This is absolutely no problem."

John Watson tugs at his jumper to calm himself. He huffs and storms away, only to return a few minutes later with a piece of red paper that reads, "You'll not win and you'll not see your mother again." It is a threat sent from the ones after Sherlock.

"It doesn't matter all of Scotland Yard is on our side," John says, mentally adding in a "this time" afterwards. "They're targeting you. Unless the Yard follows you around like ducklings, they'll just abduct you and maim you."

"John, I will not be maimed. You are overreacting."

"You are underreacting."

Sherlock sighs and hoists himself up. "John, I will take care of this. Your screeching is not helping me to think, though. Do me a favor and shut your mouth."

He lies back upside down and places his hands below his chin and rolls his eyes into the back of his head. John watches him with his hands on his hips and finally gives up and turns to leave. He walks past his mobile phone and suddenly gets an idea. Quietly as he can, he picks the phone up and finds the contact he wants.

"Who are you calling?"

"Mycroft."

Sherlock sits up violently at that. He flips over the chair and stalks over to John and practically rips the phone from his grasp. "No, John. He will not get involved in this."

Sherlock places the phone back on the table and goes back to sit in his original position. John sighs, and for the rest of the night, 221B is silent.

Sherlock thinks logically not abstractly, which is why this riddle is causing so much trouble for him. The riddle arrived at Lestrade's office door on a faxed paper from some unknown number and location. Everyone there tried their hand at it, but no one understood the wording and could barely figure out what the question even wanted. It was coded, reversed, and flipped all around it seemed. Someone had a sick mind, it appeared. Lestrade called in Sherlock and John a day later. They arrived and were ready to solve it in a few seconds flat. Except that's not what happened at all.

A large crowd stood around Sherlock as he studied the riddle. The way he looked at it made it seem like the paper killed his dog. After an hour of silence, Sherlock decided he would take the thing home and figure it out there. He claimed the room was full of too many stupid people all breathing down his neck, which is why he was not able to concentrate and solve it within a few minutes. Yeah, right.

John holds the paper in his hands out for Sherlock to read it as he paces back in forth, his regal red robe billowing around him. He suddenly stops walking and turns to stare at the paper. His eyes narrow, but a moment later he gives up and keeps pacing. Without really noticing, Sherlock continues his pacing to the entirety of the flat. He makes a few rounds through the kitchen and once up to John's bedroom and then to his own. He even leaves the flat entirely and stands on the sidewalk and then goes right back into the living room.

He lies on the floor with the riddle on his face and sighs angrily. Sherlock gets up and tosses the paper to the ground and steps on it.

John sighs too and looks at Sherlock. "Can I do anything for you?" he asks, just trying to be nice.

Sherlock whips around and almost glares a hole through John's face. "No, John."

Fair enough.

Five days later Sherlock figures it out. The answer is "deer-stalker" and Sherlock is angry.

John sits alone in the flat. He is watching telly, though the volume is turned down low. His legs and back ache still from when he sat crouched in a vent for two hours with Sherlock while on a case. Why they could not enter the door with Lestrade and Sally when they apprehended the killer is beyond John.

He gets up slowly and notices that it suddenly got quite late. He next notices that Sherlock left early (early as in 7:00 AM) and that at 9:00 PM he is still not back. John, still trying to remain as stoic and solider-like as he can, pushes away the panic in his chest and goes to shower and maybe grab something to settle his nervous stomach. When that's all said and done, though, and it's 11:00 PM and Sherlock is still not back, John really worries. He paces silently around the flat, playing with everything he can get his hands on. Hell, he takes the calendar from the wall and flips through all the pages and counts the number of days in the year.

It gets later and later in the night, and John finally decides he should really stop caring so much and begins to head up the stairs to his bedroom. As the reaches the fourth step, though, he hears the front door open. From the quickness of the footsteps on the stairs leading to the flat, John can tell it is Sherlock. John climbs back down and enters the living room, where Sherlock is just standing. He still has his coat, shoes, and scarf on.

"Fun night out?" John tries to joke. Sherlock turns to look at his flatmate. There is something slightly different about him. His eyes are more tired and his hair is more unruly and curly than normal. His face is not blank, nor sour, nor mean, nor happy. He looks tired and sad, and John realizes he has never seen this kind of face on Sherlock before. He is astonished that his flatmate is even allowing this breach of privacy and secrecy.

"I'm going to bed," he states simply, brushing past John. John frowns and follows him. He stands in the doorway to Sherlock's bedroom where he has finally shed his coat and scarf. His shoes are still on. Neither says anything, just stare at each other.

And then there is a moan.

John instantly realizes exactly what happened that night.

Sherlock barely acknowledges the moan coming from his coat pocket and keeps staring at John.

"So…" John mutters awkwardly, trying to be supportive, "should I be expecting a constant visitor around here?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "You're an idiot if you think that, John." He removes his shoes silently and sighs when John does not move and remains slightly angry and annoyed. "We did not, John. We did not. I cannot tell you enough that nothing of consequence happened."

"So that whole ruffled, rugged look on you is just a new fashion? The 'just-had-sex-with-a-dominatrix' look?"

Sherlock only frowns; John expected an explosion.

"You may believe whatever it is you want to believe, John," he says slowly and carefully, "but I can personally attest that nothing of consequence happened."

"Sherlock what does that even mean?"

"John, she's gone," Sherlock roars. It looks like he's about to go on but he instead takes a step backwards and retreats into his room further. "We had only one thing to discuss, and it was discussed. Now shut up." He says this calmer.

John feels bad. He feels really bad about this. Sherlock is hurt. Amazing. John supposes all those jokes about having no heart and emotions from everyone are entirely wrong, then. But it is rare to see this heart and these emotions, so he does not try and joke about it all. Instead, he squares his jaw and stands straighter.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks softly, trying to figure out what Sherlock is thinking of currently.

"No, John," Sherlock replies. "Leave now."

And John leaves.

John and Sherlock run everywhere, following the murderer Sherlock discovered only a few minutes prior. They had burst into the shop where he was and demanded that the man come out with them. Sherlock claimed he was Lestrade, but the man wasn't buying it and he bolted. Sherlock started the chase first and John followed right on after.

Currently, they are three blocks away from where they started, yet no one is stopping. Sherlock keeps pushing people over and John decides not to apologize since there's a murderer a few blocks down that they're trying to get. It looks like they lost him for a few moments, but suddenly Sherlock sees him race through an alley and they give chase again.

Sherlock with his long and lean legs takes long strides and jumps over things easily like a gazelle practically and gets closer to the murderer. They see him run into an old building and Sherlock does not stop and goes ahead and follows.

"John, call Lestrade!" Sherlock shouts as he takes the stairs two at a time and follows the man all the way up to the top. John does as he is asked and lets Lestrade know where they are. Far off in the distance a few moments later he hears sirens roaring and beeping and being obnoxious, but at least they're on their way. John climbs the stairs as quickly as his tired legs allow him and he ends up at the roof top a minute later.

When he gets there, though, he only wants to fall down to the ground in fear and agony. Sherlock and the man, of course, are positioned on the building's ledge. John fears a repeat of the last roof top meeting. He can tell Sherlock fears the height he might drop.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock says to the man. "You only killed one woman. Just let us arrest you. The fact that you ran makes your chances of less jail time that much worse. You know, resistance doesn't go over with those Scotland Yard monkeys – believe me, I personally know."

"Stop talking," the man squeaks. "And tell your friend he can't come any closer."

"John, please don't," Sherlock calls casually. "The man is frightened of you apparently."

"I'll jump!"

"No you won't. You would have leaped the moment you reached the edge," Sherlock explains. "But instead you let me join in on this precarious perch of yours. Might we step down? I dislike being on roofs like this. Upsets me."

The man shakes visibly. John wants to creep up and pull them back, but he knows he shouldn't.

"You called the police," the man whines. "They'll take me away and put me in jail."

"Normally that's where murderers go, friend."

"I don't want to go."

"Pity."

The sirens grow closer. One police vehicle turns the corner and the man screeches and jumps right then and there. Sherlock, despite trying to pretend he sees and knows everything, did not know that was coming. He is surprised and so therefore slips slightly. His footing is shaky at best on the ledge, and he turns to John and suddenly the ledge cracks a little and all is practically lost. Sherlock stumbles unexpectedly and tumbles over the edge. Again.

John shouts in despair and runs to the edge to see where his friend is. He (oh God oh God oh God) sees Sherlock dangling and holding onto a ledge with just one hand. John leans over the edge and stretches in a gesture to try and help him, even though they can't reach.

This is…happening again.

"Don't let go," John commands darkly, really truly angry right now that Sherlock was so stupid go and get up on that ledge. How DARE he do a thing like that?

"Oh, really, I wanted to experience the fall again, John, yes," was the sarcastic response.

"I mean it."

"Shut up."

"Sherlock, let me climb down and help you." John does not receive a response and decides not to push it in case Sherlock suddenly gives up and falls or John messes it up and they both fall and oh God this is the fall all over again this can't be happening please God no this is not okay because John can't live through the actual death of Sherlock Holmes it was hard enough before and that was fake.

John is suddenly pulled from his frightened inner monologue and hears Lestrade shouting for them both to hang on.

John reaches out further. "Sherlock," he says, pleading slightly, "let me help you."

"No, John," his friend replies forcefully. John watches as Sherlock pulls himself up onto the ledge and flatten himself against the aging glass of the window next to him. He stares at the bloody broken body on the pavement and feels sick and disgusted. They wait a few moments until Lestrade and a few others get the two flatmates and bring them back down to the safety of the street and Earth and Sherlock and John do everything in their power to avoid looking at the murderer's shattered body.

Sherlock and John mechanically accept the bright orange shock blankets. John wraps his around his shoulders and wonders if Sherlock needs a push or something.

"You okay there?" he asks, trying to make it seem like he does not care as much as he really does.

"Fine." Sherlock wraps the blanket around his own shoulders too and watches the police scene in front of them. Lights and people are everywhere. Sally Donovan is holding the man who kept Sherlock and John hostage against a police cruiser and cuffing him and shoving him into the back seat.

"We should really stop making trouble with all these criminals," John says lightly. "Not good for us, huh?"

Sherlock does not respond. He appears shaken and that worries John. He had indeed been through worse but this has affected him in horrible ways. John does not know why, and John does not ever ask why Sherlock appeared so frightened that night.

They both go home about an hour later. Sherlock manages to swipe the blankets and he places them in the back of his closet where others are being hoarded. Sherlock has a permanent frown on his face. He removes his scarf and coat and drapes them over his chemistry set in the kitchen as John makes tea to maybe try and settle his flatmate. It is quiet except for when they both sip their tea. John sees Sherlock is thinking the whole night through and wondering where it went wrong exactly so that they ended up in a damn hostage situation. John notices the minute shaking of Sherlock's hands as he places his cup down.

"I'll be off to bed then," he whispers as he leaves the room.

John watches him leave and he almost lets Sherlock go and retreat, but John decides that it's time to stop letting that happen.

"Sherlock!" he calls out. John steps into the hallway and his flatmate is there in the doorway between his room and hall.

"What is it, John?"

"Do you want to sleep together tonight?" John can't think of a better way to word it, so he just blurts it out.

"I do not un-"

"Just literally sleeping in the same bed, Sherlock. We're both a little shaken. I didn't really expect to be in life-or-death situation tonight, and I'm frankly annoyed that we ended up in one tonight." He pauses and catches his breath. "So do you want to?" he asks, reiterating his previous question.

There is a cold silence for a moment or two.

"It's fine if you don't want to, Sh-"

"Yes, John," Sherlock says, voice wavering only slightly at the name he speaks. John turns off the light in the kitchen and goes to pull Sherlock through the darkness and up the stairs to his room. And that is how Sherlock and John spent their first night together.