Chapter Two: Our Alone Time

Two years later

John hit the snooze button on the alarm clock for the third time, then sat up. He always hit the snooze button so Sherlock would be forced to get up and turn it off. John threw his legs off the bed and let them dangle. He just sat there for a while. Thinking. He turned back and looked at Sherlock, who was lying on his back, his mouth hanging open slightly. Drool was dripping out of the side of his mouth. John smiled to himself, picked up a tissue, and wiped the saliva away. Even the World's Only Consulting Detective drools in his sleep.

John stood up and stretched and yawned. He moved across the room to the closet door and pulled out his favorite green shirt. He looked at it for a moment before putting it back in the closet, then turned back to Sherlock and stared at the sleeping detective like a puppy staring at a... well... like a puppy staring at anything. After a few moments of thought-collecting, John walked out of the room to wake Hamish for school.

"Hi, Sarah, it's John."

"Hi, John, how are you?"

"I'm not bad, but I've called to say I can't come into work this morning."

"Oh?"

"Yeah... Sherlock and I, well, we've been having some troubles... It hasn't been going well at all. We keep arguing about the most menial things, from what Hamish is wearing to what we're having for dinner. It's getting ridiculous. I don't think he sees it, though. I want to spend today trying to sort everything out with him."

"Oh dear. Well, I'll let you off this time, John, but I definitely need you in tomorrow."

"Okay, that's fine. Thanks, Sarah. I'll talk to you soon."

"Alright, John. I hope everything's alright. Have a good day."

John hung up the phone and poured Hamish a bowl of cornflakes. He heard the alarm in the bedroom chime for a fourth time, a soft groan, and the sound of an alarm clock being flung into a wall. John rolled his eyes, then watched as Sherlock dragged himself out of their bedroom into the kitchen. He slipped into his satin dressing gown, then collapsed on a chair, and put his head on the table. John smiled to himself again and put a mug of coffee - black, two sugars - in front of Sherlock's shaggy black head of hair.

"Good morning, sunshine." John said cheerily. He leaned down and gave his husband a kiss on the top of his head. Sherlock responded with the kind of grunt you'd hear from a teenage boy who had just been told to have a shower. John rolled his eyes again.

"So... Sherlock... I've been... well... I'm not sure if... um... I've been thinki-" John started, before Hamish burst through the door of the kitchen. He was all dressed for school. His hair was a disaster but at least he was presentable. He hopped into his chair and watched John pour milk into his bowl of cornflakes.

"Good morning, Father! Good morning, Daddy!"

"Hello, Hamish," Sherlock grunted, his head still glued to the table's surface. Hamish picked up his spoon, excitedly ate his breakfast, choked on a bit of cornflake, grabbed his bag, gave a quick hug to John on his way out, and went off to school.

About an hour and half later, after the usual morning discussions over the weather and other various smalltalk, John and Sherlock got dressed. John, in his favorite green shirt tucked into a pair of dark jeans, and Sherlock in his famous purple shirt tucked into a pair of black trousers. Sherlock then took up his usual position -hands pressed together, finger tips at the chin- on his armchair by the fireplace. He closed his eyes. John watched him do this. Now that he'd thought about it, he wasn't really sure what Sherlock did when John was at work. He'd just figured he went off with Greg or he wandered into a crime scene or something, but John had told Greg not to phone today. John took his place in the armchair opposite Sherlock, not taking his eyes off him. He looked rather peaceful... which was strange in itself. John cleared his throat, and Sherlock's eyes popped open.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, not changing his position.

"Well, to start off, I happen to live here as a matter of fact." John replied.

"Yes, but why aren't you at work?"

John paused. Sherlock was Sherlock. Everything he did was so Sherlock. It was never easy confessing his feelings to him, even after ten years of marriage and fifteen years of knowing each other. "I've missed you," he said finally.

"Impossible." Sherlock said, "we live together. You can't miss me, we see each other everyday. We sleep in the same bed every night."

"Yeah, but... well... all of our conversations recently have been about Hamish, and I thought it would... be... nice... to have... our... alone... time. Again. I've... missed you." Smooth, he thought. He couldn't tell anyone why he was still so nervous about talking to Sherlock like this. Fifteen years, he kept reminding himself, fifteen years.

Sherlock looked at John up and down, keeping his mouth shut. John felt his husband's stare. That was something he was used to. He could feel it. He was being deduced. Sometimes he tried to change Sherlock's deductions. This time he just let him do his thing.

Finally, Sherlock put his hands on the arms of his chair, pushed, and stood up. He walked towards John slowly, and John felt the same fuzzy feeling in his stomach he had felt the day they met. Or rather, the day he fell in love. The day they met, John deduced Sherlock to be an arsehole and avoided him. They day they fell in love, well...

"I've missed you, too." Sherlock said. Very out of character. He held out his hand, John grabbed it, and Sherlock lifted him out of his chair. He pulled John into his arms. John giggled. It was a rather, well, girly giggle. Meaning he actually sounded like he had the voice that would normally be considered a female-sounding voice. Just to be politically correct. This was unusual.

Sherlock held John, with his hands linked at John's lower back, John's hands linked at the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock pulled John closer, so he could rest his chin on John's head. They stood there. Swaying. Hugging tightly, neither wanting to let go.

John had his ear pressed against Sherlock's chest to hear his heartbeat. He loved doing this. It reminded him that Sherlock was still human. It reminded him of why he fell in love. Sherlock was his person. His favorite person. Sherlock and Hamish were the only ones who mattered to John in that moment. Sherlock, his best friend and the love of his life. Sherlock.

He was so in love. So in love. He wanted this to go on forever. There was no music playing, just the two of them swaying together in 221B's living room. Then there was humming. Sherlock was humming Beethoven. This, John thought, is why I married him. John held him tighter still, hugging him, the entirety of their bodies just pressed together as though someone was trying to morph them into one very odd looking Sherlock-John hybrid. Sherlock's quiet humming continued, and John listened without saying a word. Just listening to Sherlock's voice.

Suddenly John heard Sherlock's heartbeat speed up. He loosened his grip on him, and tried to stay calm, but he knew what was happening. You see, John loved Sherlock, and told him very often, every chance he got. They'd been a couple for thirteen years, married for ten, and John had lost count how many times he said he loved Sherlock. But Sherlock was different. He had never said it. John could tell when he wanted to, though. His pulse would quicken, his feet would shuffle, his palms would sweat. John knew what it meant. He never said anything aloud, but he knew. Sherlock knew that he knew. But to be fair, what doesn't Sherlock know? About anyone? Sherlock tried to breathe normally again, but found it difficult. To try and help, John stood on his toes, and slowly leaned towards Sherlock for the perfect collision. His lips were warm. John felt him relax, and felt his hand on his back, running up and down slowly. John pulled away, and looked at this man. This man who was still a mystery to him.

"I love you, so much, Sherlock."

"That is a grossly sentimental thing to say, John."

"Yes, I know, but it's true. I hope you know that."

Sherlock looked at John with more love in his eyes than anyone knew what to do with. After a few moments of staring, he finally said, "I do."

John pressed his lips against Sherlock's again, and tightened his grip on him once more. His arms wrapped more firmly around John, and lifted him slightly off his feet, so he toes were still touching the ground. John moved his head steadily, every movement intentional, every breath taken at the correct second. Sherlock put John back on the ground, and John took a step backwards, not removing his mouth from his husband's. They walked together to the sofa, their lips glued together. John laid Sherlock down on the sofa, then laid on top of him, kissing him slowly, passionately, with as much love and affection as he could muster. Sherlock responded with equal enthusiasm, running one hand down John's back, the other through John's hair. John held Sherlock's face still, not wanting to make a wrong move. This could go on forever.

Of course, it didn't. Mrs Hudson knocked on the door, and whispered "hoo, hoo!". John was less than pleased with her at this point, but he decided to ignore her and continued showing his husband how much he loved him. But, Mrs Hudson, being the ultimate cock block she is, opened the door, holding a tray of tea and biscuits. Ignoring her was becoming more difficult. John pulled his mouth away from Sherlock's, and glared at Mrs Hudson, who was just standing there fangirling. No one loved John and Sherlock's relationship more than Mrs Hudson.

"Is there something we can do for you, Mrs H?" John asked, refusing to remove himself from on top of Sherlock.

"Oh... oh no, oh dear," Mrs Hudson stammered, she looked very flustered. She obviously hadn't intended to walk in on them like this. "I... sorry, John... I... oh, I'll let you get back to it!" She turned red and walked out. Once she'd closed the door, John could hear her giggling like a child.

"Well, that killed the mood." John said, disappointed. And he was just getting into it. You know. Into it.

"Not necessarily. Why don't we go out?" Sherlock said suddenly.

"Out? We never go out! Where would we go?" John looked at Sherlock. Then he suddenly became aware that this conversation was happening while he was lying on top of Sherlock, with his hands pressed against the sofa, so he was basically in the position to do a push up, but in the way a seal might do a push up. A seal that was about to get laid for the first time in months. A GAY seal who was about to get laid for the first time in months. Wait, where was I?

John stood up off the sofa and Sherlock sat up straight and ruffled his hair. "So? Are we going out then?" Sherlock looked up at John, which wasn't something he did very often. John stepped in front of Sherlock and took some of his hair into his hands. "I don't really fancy going out. I fancy sending Mrs Hudson out. Or locking our door for a change. We live in London. You'd think we'd lock our flat." John was really frustrated now.

"No, it's alright. She's just gone out. I heard the door. Probably gone to see Mrs Turner next door. We really do need to find her a hobby."

"Well... what do you want to do now she's gone?"

"Dunno. Film? James Bond?"

"No, you always spoil films."

"How?"

"You know how, you always tell me what's going to happen twenty minutes before it happens!"

"I'm just pointing out what's obvious."

"Obvious to you, maybe."

"John, do we really ne-" and they were interrupted once again, this time by John's mobile ringing.

"Oh, for God's... hello?" John said annoyed, picking up his phone. Sherlock smiled stupidly at John's frustration. John looked back at Sherlock, only half-listening to what Molly had to say on the other end of the phone line, focusing primarily on Sherlock's goofy smile. This was all John wanted to care about at that moment. He just wanted to be with Sherlock, to shut out the rest of the world. He told Molly he had to go, he turned off his mobile, he turned off Sherlock's mobile, he locked the door, closed the drapes, and turned back to Sherlock, who had been watching from the sofa. He grinned goofily again, and John smiled back fondly. He walked over to Sherlock, and sat on his leg. He cupped Sherlock's face in his hands and kissed him again and again. This was their time. They weren't going to be bothered by Mrs Hudson, or Molly, or anyone else in the outside world who might stare at them and judge them.

Hours passed.

In fact... Lots of hours passed...

Too many hours...

Way too many hours...

"Sherlock..." John started, glancing at his husband, "Sherlock, where's Hamish?"