This is a series of thirteen 221bs.
Sherlock turned away from the window, where he had stood, thinking, mostly, and wondering what took John so long. He couldn't say what John had done in the bathroom for two hours (a slightly disturbing thought), but he could tell that John was relaxed, and happy, and distinctly adorable today. Sherlock frowned. Those thoughts did not belong into his head. Not at all.
"You okay?" Now John was worried. He didn't want to worry John, because a worried John always asked questions. So Sherlock half shrugged and walked to the couch, dropping down on it, hiding his face from John.
Of course he noticed. "Talk." Nothing more; but Sherlock couldn't talk. He really really couldn't talk. If he opened his mouth now, the wrong things would come out and John would laugh at him and call him idiot. He liked when John did that.
"You look good today," he said before he could stop himself.
John's frown grew deeper and more serious. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"Fine."
"Sherlock?" A warning in his voice. Bit not good.
"I was distracted for a second and noticed that you look," he hesitated, "good."
"Erm, thanks, I guess?"
John really didn't get it. Sherlock wanted to throw a cushion at him for being so ignorant; and he knew he'd soon start to feel bitter.
It took John ages to get his courage up. Maybe today he would finally face the dreaded truth and tell Sherlock that it would be impossible to live with him without being more than flat mates; more than colleagues, more than friends. He knew he might blow his chance at staying all of the above with Sherlock if the man had, as he suspected, remained entirely oblivious of his adoration; no, infatuation.
He finally dressed and walked into the living room, ignoring the butterflies and jumbo jets racing through his stomach when his eyes caught on Sherlock's back, and then his arse, where they remained until Sherlock turned around. John tried to look innocent, but Sherlock looked positively shocked. He needed Sherlock to explain himself before any pouring out of heart's contents could happen. Something was bothering him, something profound. Then he lay down on the couch, hiding from him. Bastard. He did not believe Sherlock for one second when he made the compliment.
John sighed, trying to finally say it. "Do you have any plans for tonight?"
Sherlock remained silent.
"We could have dinner?"
"Dinner? Going out for dinner?" Surprise. Surprise was good.
"Going out, yes."
"I ate yesterday." Oh. Bit not good.
"You don't have a case." John hoped Sherlock could hear the hope.
"I can't. Tonight I'm busy."
Why does he want to eat? I can't think when I eat. I like to watch him eat. No, don't go there. Sherlock closed his eyes, pretending to be in deep thought; well, he was in deep thought, but not the way John probably suspected.
"Tomorrow?" Why was John so adamant to go out? Was he tired of their flat? Was he uncomfortable? No, yes. No. He hadn't been uncomfortable when he had come out of the bathroom. He had looked… Sherlock opened his eyes only to be confronted with a searching stare by the man he needed to get away from right this moment or he would reach out and…
John straightened and turned to go into the kitchen. Don't leave. "Tomorrow?" He would have to sit close to him, and watch as food would disappear behind those lips and… He had never had to cut off his own thoughts with such an alarming frequency. The thing was that there were quite a number of possible outcomes to his thoughts, and none of them felt safe to think with John in the same room. "We can do tomorrow."
"Good." And John was gone. Sherlock simply breathed, and despised himself. He had never been a coward, but this was uncharted territory. To him it was earth-shattering; to John it would probably be banal.
Tomorrow then. He could wait until tomorrow. The tea tasted stale when he drank it, sitting at the kitchen table by himself, wondering why Sherlock was being so strange at the moment. There was no case that he knew of, and Sherlock wasn't his usual bored self. Maybe he was sick?
He made more tea and carried the cup into the living room, placing it carefully on the coffee table.
"Thank you," Sherlock murmured from the couch.
"Are you sure you are okay, Sherlock? You seem a bit … off."
Sherlock opened his eyes to look at John and for a second he looked incredibly vulnerable, and very beautiful. John's stomach clenched and he wondered whether it wouldn't be smarter to get it over with.
"Sherlock, can I talk to you?"
Panic, was that panic in Sherlock's eyes? Oh God, he knows. Of course he does. This is why he is avoiding me. I can't tell him now. Not now, not ever. What was I thinking?
John turned around, seeing himself in the mirror. He was pale. His hands were sweaty and a sudden all-consuming pain made him nauseous.
"John. What it is. Are you sick?"
The reversal in roles made John laugh in spite of his terror. John Watson, you twat. You're just making it worse. Stop being such a baby.
John brought him tea. Nothing unusual about that, except that everything was different. Did he know? Did he try to let him off easy. No. Why did he have to ask. He couldn't lie to him; not about this, not anymore.
Off, oh, if John only knew how off he was; how off he had been since that day John had leaned in close and told him that he would protect him. That he would always protect him. Pressing his hand on the deep cut in his thigh. He had been in shock and there had been no pain, but a bruise of John's hand on his skin and a bruise of John on his heart.
He wants to talk? Why does he always want to talk? Because he knows, and he knows that I am an idiot. This time, I really really am. How did this happen?
Sherlock tried to hide his pain from John, but he knew he couldn't. He saw it in his eyes that he couldn't. So he had to ask; but he did not expect to be laughed at. Not by John. He had never laughed at him. Had he laughed at him? He wasn't sure of much anymore. No, he could be sure that John was still the same, and he certainly wasn't a bully.
John shook his head and turned around. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. It's just that you said what I thought earlier." Sherlock pushed himself up on the couch, waiting for him to continue. Was that a blush creeping up his neck? Was he embarrassed by him? For him? Oh God. "I'm sorry," he repeated, being so very much aware of the fact that Sherlock hated repetition.
"It's alright," Sherlock sounded weary.
Because he knows what's coming. He knows what I am going to say and he doesn't want me to say it.
John swallowed and forced himself back towards Sherlock. It had never been this hard to come closer.
"Hear me out, okay? Don't say anything until I've finished talking. Please." John wiped his hands on his jeans and tried to look more relaxed than he was. He failed spectacularly. His leg started twitching and he felt sweat dampen his hair. Very attractive, a little sarcastic voice screamed in his head. He forced it down and wiped his hands again.
"I can't do this anymore," he started, seeing Sherlock's eyes go wide. He closed his own and continued. "I know I have been behaving like an idiot lately. I don't know what has come over me but I seriously cannot pretend that things are still like they were before."
Oh alright, here we go. John starts repeating things, which is always a bad sign. John shouldn't be this insecure. He should just tell me off and get on with things.
Sherlock's toes dug into the sofa cushion. Anything to distract him from the nervous man standing in the middle of the room, sweating with the need to make him see; to make him understand. Sherlock swallowed and tried to ignore what seeing John's hair dampen did to his stomach.
Slowly, the words sunk in. Sherlock tried to listen through the white noise that filled his head. He knew what John was saying, he didn't have to hear him say it.
"I seriously cannot pretend that things are still like they were before." Because they are not, and they can never be. Sherlock sat up abruptly, then stood. His feet moved without him having given them the order. Pacing up and down the room, John followed him with his eyes. Silence followed, until John started again. "I know that this is hard to understand, especially from your perspective. And I accept that, but I do hope that you accept my feeling as well. Accept them, and move on." John had tears in his eyes. He had missed something essential here, but what? He couldn't think straight, something was clouding his brain.
He could see that Sherlock didn't take in what he said. Not really. Not how he needed him to. Frustration forced tears into his eyes. No matter how much he loved that man, he could be infuriating in the worst moments possible. "I cannot be without you. I need you." His voice was wonky, and Sherlock kept pacing. "I know that this is hard to understand, especially from your perspective."
Sherlock suddenly stopped and looked at him as if he had just noticed him standing there, wonder in his eyes. John had the distinct feeling that he had not listened to a word he had just said, but he kept on rambling.
"Say something," he pleaded when Sherlock just stared, uncomprehending.
"Can you say that again? I am not sure I understood what you just said." Was he mocking him?
"I said, I need you." John sounded stubborn now, wanting to show Sherlock that he meant what he said.
For a long minute the two men just stared at each other. Then Sherlock's voice dropped dangerously as he spoke. "Say that again."
John looked Sherlock in the eyes when he repeated, again, what he had wanted to say for so long. "I need you. I … I think I love you."
Say something, Sherlock, say something. Anything!
But Sherlock just looked bemused.
John was talking. He was talking and Sherlock really didn't want to hear what he had to say. He got up and started pacing, his brain rattling down the numbers of pi. He was at the two hundred and twelfth digit when he thought he heard John say something entirely unexpected. So he stopped, sudden hope flaring up inside of him, but he battled it down, knowing perfectly well that his brain might have played a trick on him. So he made himself ask, internally shielding himself from what was to come.
"I said, I need you." Need? Need me to listen? Need me to leave? Need me to do what?
So he asked again, and he was absolutely not prepared for what John said next; absolutely not. For a moment he stared at John, repeating the words in his head, trying to fit them with the movement John's lips had made when he had spoken them. John's lips. Not the best idea to stare at them, really.
Again, his feet moved without his command, his hand, reaching out to touch that damp forehead, testing for fever; then moving down to the side of John's neck, taking the pulse.
John looked at him with such wonder, a single tear dropping from his lashes, and Sherlock knew how make it all better.
Sherlock touched him. He didn't run away, he didn't start laughing, he touched his face. John bit down a whimper, afraid it might scare him away. Is this what hope feel like?
He took a shuddering breath, leaning in closer, not daring to close the distance between them entirely. Sherlock's eyes fluttered over his face, as if he was a rare species yet to be discovered and John's heart gave a start, hammering away, making him feel light headed.
Maybe he needed to say it again. Make sure Sherlock understood that he really meant what he said, no matter how painful rejection would feel. But this didn't feel like rejection.
He made himself look up at Sherlock's eyes. He was still looking at him, really looking. There was something in the way Sherlock looked at him now which calmed him down. In that storm of emotions and insecurities, Sherlock's eyes anchored him, and suddenly he knew that no matter what, things would be fine; the always would be fine between them. So he smiled, hoping it might encourage Sherlock to finally say something.
And Sherlock's eyes narrowed for a moment, processing the new information, and finally, he visibly relaxed and started to smile as well. And then he closed the gap, and leaning in, he kissed John's forehead, stealing his breath.
John had said what he thought he had said. How could he have been so utterly blind? Every single time John had called him an idiot it had been true. John smiled at him and he wondered whether he had stopped looking at John properly a long time ago; afraid of what he might read. But now, now he looked at him, really looked, and all he saw was fear and hope and something which he lacked the words to describe. This was so far out of his comfort zone, he didn't know how to get home safely, but there was John; John who had always been there and who had said that he would always be there. The immensity of this realization made Sherlock's knees wobble. He needed to hold on to something steady. John.
Leaning in he pressed his lips to his forehead, slowly letting his arms wander over shoulders and down, pulling John against him until he hugged him. He never hugged people. Not really. Maybe Mrs Hudson, but this, this was different.
The weight he felt being lifted off his shoulders made him sag against John, and he felt warm strong arms around his own body, being held now, more than holding himself. He kissed John's hair and felt a hand stroking up and down his back.
Sherlock just kissed me. That was all John could think for a while. He kissed me.
His arms automatically wrapped themselves around the shaking body in front of him and only when he felt another kiss pressed to his hair did he start to understand what was happening. He thought hard about Sherlock's behavior. About the way he had remained distant, physically, but how much more they had communicated through their eyes lately. His arms tightened, afraid his legs might give in.
He could feel a heart beating furiously, but he couldn't tell whether that was his own or Sherlock's.
So he didn't leave; he didn't run away. They were both still here, neither of them panicked, both of them desperately holding on to the new reality.
"I need you, too," Sherlock murmured against his hair and John couldn't hold back the whimper this time.
"I think I need to sit down," Sherlock then added, huffing out a laugh which tickled John's ear.
Sitting down sounded like just the thing to do, but then they would have to let go, and John didn't want to let go. The carpet then. The carpet was always an option.
"Carpet," John said and slowly moved down. Surprisingly, Sherlock followed without protest. And the certainty surged through John that sometimes all it took was bravery.
Why are we on the carpet? Right. Sitting down.
Sherlock tried to not let go of John, but halfway down they both realized that they would fall on their faces if they didn't. So they sat, and then John moved closer, so much closer than before. He tried not to think of what his body would do if John lifted that leg and sat on his lap.
Don't do it John, I can't guarantee that…oh yes. Yes.
Sherlock crossed his legs, forcing John even closer. Both men were breathing hard and Sherlock couldn't remember to having ever been this much out of breath without any kind of exercise at all.
And then he stopped breathing altogether, because John's hands were on his face and then his lips were on his and then he felt warmth flood him, setting down where John was sitting.
He broke away, almost hyperventilating now. "Wait, please."
John looked shocked, then angry, then insecure. To make sure that John would stay Sherlock wrapped his arms around him again. "Give me a minute," he tried to explain. "I need to know what I'm doing."
And John laughed, pushing his hands into his hair, his eyes crinkling at the corners and Sherlock knew that even though he had never been this scared, he was definitely ready for a new beginning.