Alright, now I feel as though we've gotten properly started. ^_^
Special thanks goes to my Beta, Helena Chauby as well as to Lady of Clunn, for BritPicking this story.
In addition I would like the thank my flatmate, sounding board, and own personal Sherlock, Geoff. Feedback and reviews are much appreciated!
I'm really excited about this story; I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1: Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps
John threw himself back against the door of his flat and groaned softly. He was glad to be home. As much as he loved his work it could be exhausting, especially when he was wreaking havoc on his energy supplies and sleep schedule by running amok with Sherlock half the time. John pushed himself off the door and trudged further into his flat, scanning for Sherlock. He found his consulting detective in the kitchen, bent over some beakers and Petri dishes. He didn't want to know. Still, he couldn't help but smile at the look of intense concentration on Sherlock's face.
"Evening Sherlock," John murmured, leaning against the door frame to the kitchen, "How was your day?"
Sherlock immediately looked up from his experiment, his eyes softened, and his mouth curled up in a welcoming smile. "Good evening John," he replied setting his things down. He stepped away from his experiment and towards his blogger. "After your abysmal lack of response to my text I began experimenting with mold colonies and their growth on decayed flesh."
John paled a bit and craned his head trying to see around Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock chuckled and John jumped a bit when warm breath ghosted over his ear.
"Relax," Sherlock said, his eyes sparkling with amusement, "I've requested small strips of dead flesh, enough to contain in the dishes on the table. They need to be under heat lamps so they won't be molesting your food."
John felt heat flush his face and looked down for a moment. It was just stupid to think of thin strips of dead flesh as a touching gesture. They wouldn't be in the fridge, as Sherlock had said, and because they were only strips they wouldn't be quite so unsettling to come across unexpectedly. Sherlock had thought of him. Specifically. Yup, hypothesis confirmed, he was stupid.
"How was your day , John?" The question was soft and warm.
A tingling, happy feeling curled up in John's chest at the question. Sherlock didn't bother with pleasantries for anyone, so when he took an interest, you knew it was genuine. It made John feel special. John inhaled and looked up into Sherlock's brilliant eyes.
"Good," John began, a smile creeping back onto his face, "Busy. I lanced another abscess, messy business. Oh, when I got to work I was a bit late, we had someone screaming in the waiting room, and two possible overdoses. I'm surprised I manage to get through everyone in one day there were so many."
The consulting detective took another step toward John and smirked warmly. "You really have a thing for danger, don't you?"
Sherlock was standing very close to him now. So close that John leaned his head back against the wall as he looked up at Sherlock, suddenly warm and dizzy. "I guess so," John murmured, willing his heart to beat normally. It wasn't listening. His chest felt tight. No. This wasn't good. Or maybe it was, but John did not want to look at this too closely right now. He had to pull some brain cells together here. Think of something. Sherlock was just a boundary-ignoring genius; this didn't mean anything. Right. Right?
"D-dinner?"
Sherlock's smile widened. "Starving," And with a quick 'swoosh' of clothing Sherlock had turned and started walking towards the door. "Angelo's alright?"
John took a few measured breaths before replying, "Yes, fine." One more breath and then he was jogging after Sherlock, who was almost out on the street already.
John grinned as Angelo seated them in what was rapidly becoming "their" booth. "You remember the first time we were here?" John asked, glancing at Sherlock over his menu.
Sherlock chuckled and nodded. "Obviously. The beginning of our work together."
John shook his head and looked back at the menu. "I never would've guessed where we'd end up."
Sherlock "hmmed" thoughtfully and assumed his thinking pose, hands pressed together against his lips. After a moment he said, "There has been a shortage of good cases lately. Forget murder, I'd love to sink my teeth into a halfway intelligent serial killer." After a pregnant pause Sherlock glanced over at John who was glaring at him with narrowed eyes. "Not good?"
"A bit not good, yeah." John giggled despite himself. "You really are something else Sherlock."
"My friends!" Angelo gushed as he approached their table. With a candle. John pointedly ignored the candle. "How are you both this evening?"
"Fine Angelo," John replied, setting his menu down. "I'll have the lobster ravioli please."
"The stuffed mushrooms for me," Sherlock added, handing the restaurant owner their menus.
John stared at Sherlock incredulously until the consulting detective met his confused gaze and said, "What?"
"You're eating," John replied slowly.
"I eat," Sherlock huffed, a bit indignant.
"Not often, and not recently."
Sherlock leaned towards John, his chin resting on his interlocked fingers. "Maybe I became tired of your nagging."
John smiled, "You could do with a bit more nagging."
Sherlock shrugged and sipped at his water.
John leaned back into his seat and took a moment to just relax. As brilliant as work (especially his cases with Sherlock) could be it had been a really long time since he'd just relaxed. A thought occurred to him.
"Sherlock," he began, "Do you ever think about going on holiday?"
Sherlock glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. "With you?"
John flushed unexpectedly. He took a drink of water to collect himself before continuing. "With or without anyone. Do you ever think of going on holiday at all?"
"What for? Do you think there are more interesting cases abroad?"
"Lord Sherlock, don't you think of anything but cases? Didn't you stop for just a moment during a case to appreciate the stars?"
Sherlock's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "I'm surprised you remember that." Then he thought for a moment. "Sometimes, especially recently."
John tipped his head to this side in confusion. "Sometimes what?"
Sherlock stared at him pointedly. "You asked if I ever think of things besides a case. I said sometimes, do try to keep up with your own conversation John."
John huffed in mock annoyance and smiled. "Eat your mushrooms," he mumbled as their dinners had just arrived.
Sherlock smiled and did just that. "So where would you go?" he asked after a few moments of chewing.
John looked down into his ravioli and thought a moment. Again, specific attention from Sherlock about him and his interests. It was nice... John shook his head and looked up. "America maybe. I hear there's lovely scenery in Oregon. I've also heard the Appalachian mountains are nice. There are supposed to be some good sights to see on the east coast near New York. Good museums."
Sherlock shrugged, unimpressed. "I find that London keeps my mind adequately engaged."
John rolled his eyes even as an affectionate smile formed on his lips. "I know you know London like the back of your hand, Sherlock, but the whole point of a holiday is to go somewhere that you wouldn't normally go, relax, and see some interesting things."
"I wasn't aware there were rules," Sherlock mused.
"I'm curious now," John began, leaning closer conspiratorially over his ravioli, "Where would you go Sherlock?"
Sherlock thought for a moment before replying, "Probably some of the ruins throughout Europe, good place to practice deducing." John chuckled, and after a brief glare Sherlock continued. "Japan is also of interest. Their culture is full of intricacies most others can't keep up with." Sherlock thought again, the tines of his fork pressing against his pale lips. Which was not distracting for John in the slightest. Not at all.
"Though if you're going to America I suppose I could convince you to go to Hawaii."
"You would go on holiday with me?" John asked surprised, his fork suspended over his plate.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then smiled. "I don't see why not. I have heard it said that traveling is more enjoyable with good company."
John looked down and flushed, again. This was becoming a bad habit. It was just a compliment on his company; no need to blow it out of proportion. Still...it was coming from Sherlock; he did not compliment lightly.
John forced himself to look up at Sherlock again. His pale face glowed in the candlelight. "Why would you want to go to Hawaii? I've heard it's supposed to be a laid-back place."
Sherlock grinned at him over his fork. "Better stargazing. Away from most city lights, high altitudes on the volcanoes to give you a better view."
John nodded. This made sense. The idea of Sherlock staring at the stars just to appreciate the view made him smile. Earlier John had mentioned the one time he had seen Sherlock stargazing, if only for a moment. It would be nice to see more of it.
"That was a good case," Sherlock stated, his eyes getting a faraway look as he recounted those fast paced days.
John huffed a laugh. "You have a funny idea of 'good' you know. We both almost died. A few times."
Sherlock shrugged and brought his attention back to John's face. "Wouldn't be the first time. Comes with the territory I suppose."
John's face took on a slightly pinched expression and Sherlock knew he was thinking of his fall from St. Barts. A distant and unpleasant memory for them both. He still couldn't believe John had accepted him back as easily as he had.
Wanting to stop John's discomfort, Sherlock began speaking again. "Do you remember the time I came to the flat covered in blood, with that spear?"
John laughed into his water glass. "How could I forget? God, Sherlock you were quite a sight."
Sherlock grinned back at him. "It was a most amusing walk home."
"I'll bet it was," John replied between mouthfuls. "You got a kick out of the stares didn't you?"
Sherlock shrugged as he chewed. When he had swallowed he said, "I enjoy making lesser minds think for once."
"Humble aren't you?" John quipped.
"We all have our flaws," Sherlock said, unconcerned.
They ate in silence for a few minutes before John started chuckling to himself.
"What is it?" Sherlock queried.
"Just remembering. Buckingham Palace. Do we still have that ashtray?"
Sherlock nodded, "And the sheet. The ashtray is by the skull on the mantle.
John shook his head. "God, the sheet. Can you imagine if the Queen had been around?"
Sherlock lifted his hand slightly in surrender. "Mycroft was the one who almost took off my sheet, and he calls us immature."
"We were mature enough to survive being handcuffed together," John mused, taking another mouthful of ravioli.
"I thought we handled that rather well," Sherlock noted.
John sputtered. "Well?! You were trying to ignore physics jumping over that fence with me attached to your arm."
Sherlock shrugged. "We worked it out didn't we?"
"Yeah, once you started listening to me, " John replied.
"Yes I may need to work on that."
"May? Possibly? Perhaps? You do remember getting jumped by a Chinese assassin because you left me in the lurch outside that woman's apartment, don't you?"
Sherlock took a moment to study the mushroom at the end of his fork. "I do seem to recall something of the sort."
"Please, Sherlock, everyone knows you have an eidetic memory when you don't delete things. That was a good case so don't try to convince me you deleted it."
Sherlock grinned and pulled his last mushroom off of his fork with his teeth. At length, after chewing and swallowing, Sherlock said, "I do believe we have improved our cooperative abilities over the years."
John nodded. "It helps that you act like you trust me now."
"Of course I trust you," Sherlock replied, "You have been..." he paused, as though the words stuck in his throat a little, "very loyal and trusting yourself. Perhaps to the point of foolishness, mind you, but still..." Sherlock let the words hang there a moment.
John rolled his eyes and smiled. "It's hard not to trust someone who would throw themselves off a building to keep you safe," he said softly. Their eyes met, shimmering in the candlelight, and they held each other's gazes, smiling.
"Can I interest either of you in dessert this evening," Angelo asked, coming up to take away their empty plates.
John had an idea which formed an evil smile on his lips. "Yes," he replied. Molten chocolate lava cake please, two spoons."
Angelo smiled and winked. "Right away."
Sherlock was looking at him incredulously and John had to struggle not to giggle.
"You're still too thin. I'm just trying to take advantage of you while you're in the mood to eat." There was a pause, then John groaned and rested his forehead in the palm of his right hand. "That did not come out right."
It was Sherlock's turn to laugh. He placed his right hand lightly over John's left, which was still resting on the table. "Thank you for looking out for me."
John looked up at Sherlock, turned his hand so that their palms were pressed together and squeezed. "You're welcome. I've always got your back Sherlock, whether you like it or not." He withdrew his hand after a moment and scanned the restaurant. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, more just something to do other than look at Sherlock. He was feeling odd again and resolutely not exploring those feelings. He needed a brief distraction.
While the consulting detective was as annoying as ever, since his return from the dead he had been more open with John. It was a small change that spoke volumes.
Angelo arrived shortly with their dessert and the check.
"Now," John began as he picked up his spoon and Sherlock picked up his, "You will be eating half of this, no arguments."
"If you insist," Sherlock conceded with a put-upon sigh.
An easy silence followed where each man just focused on the dish in front of them. John smiled. This was one of the things he like most about Sherlock; the silences between them were as fulfilling as running around with him on a case. They'd become comfortable with each other, without any pressure to speak just to fill the void. After this long being partners (professional, of course) they could communicate without speaking at times.
"What are you so happy about?" Sherlock murmured, amusement clear in his voice.
John looked up and chuckled. "Sherlock you've got a bit of chocolate here," John tapped the right side of his chin, close to his mouth.
Sherlock stuck his tongue out and swiped it along the corner of his mouth, clearing away the chocolate. John swallowed and the room suddenly felt a bit warm. He looked down at the plate and tried to concentrate on the taste of chocolate in his mouth instead of the erratic beat of his heart.
Some long minutes later their plate was cleared and their check was paid. John was slightly calmer, but still flustered.
"Ready to go?" Sherlock asked. his breath ghosting over John's ear. His voice sounded soft and warm.
John blinked and realized he must have been staring at the tabletop again, lost in thought. He nodded dumbly, hoping Sherlock felt better now that he had actually eaten something.
One brief cab ride later found them back in their flat again. Neither made a move to turn the lights off as they could see fine with ambient light from the street below.
John turned to Sherlock as he closed the door and placed a hand on his wrist. "Thank you for tonight."
Sherlock looked down at him in the soft light, looking happy and slightly confused. "You're welcome," he murmured. They stood there for several moments, smiling at each other.
Acting on impulse John reached up and hugged Sherlock for a moment, feeling the other man close to him. Hugging had become somewhat more common (that is to say it happened occasionally) since Sherlock's return. John wondered for a moment why that was and if the reasons for it were all as innocent as they appeared. Then he decided that it had been a good evening, and he was too tired to muck it up by over thinking anything else today. "Goodnight, Sherlock." He whispered. "Try to get some sleep tonight."
"Goodnight John," Sherlock breathed into his ear. John smiled, pulled back, and made his way up to his bedroom. He was happy, and looking forward to a good sleep.
Sherlock watched John as he retreated into the shadows. He stayed by the door for some long minutes before walking towards his violin and picking it up off the coffee table. He brought the familiar instrument under his chin, and began to play. After many long talks about the necessities of sleep, John and Sherlock had come to an agreement about late night violin playing. Sherlock was allowed to as long as it was quiet and not too jarring.
The strings sang under Sherlock's careful ministrations; the song was soft, haunting, and thoughtful. Sherlock's music usually reflected his mood, and this was no exception.
The moment Sherlock had stepped off of the roof of St. Barts, he knew he loved John Watson. Never had he been so willing to risk everything for someone else. As much as he avoided attachments and protested love to be a chemical defect, sentiment for John had crept in silently and completely. By the time he realized it was there, it was deeply wound around his heart and he could find no way to remove it. More surprising still... he didn't want to. He would step off that building again if it would keep John safe.
The music hummed with a new longing, undercurrent.
He knew John wasn't gay. He'd had his doubts as first, especially after John had asked after his romantic interest their first time together at Angelo's. However, as case followed case Sherlock observed that John was irresistibly drawn to the chase. John was almost as thrilled with cases as Sherlock was. Granted it was tempered with more empathy and practicality. Still, it was the cases, not Sherlock, that John was so enamoured with. John obviously cared for Sherlock as well, but just as a friend.
The music developed a steady, sweeping rhythm like that of breath or a heartbeat.
Sherlock threw his mind back to the day he had returned from the dead. It had been three years. Three long years. Without his blogger...without John. Sherlock swallowed hard and remembered.
He had been careful. He had hunted every last member of Moriarty's loyal underlings until no danger remained. There could be no risk; he couldn't allow it. When, at last, his path was clear, he faltered. Should he return? It would be hard on John and the other people he cared about (few though they were).
In the end his sentiment, his love for John had won out. John deserved the truth, and Sherlock hoped they could at least resume as they had been.
As much as Sherlock wanted to go back, he didn't want to simply appear either. He knew that might be a bit of a shock for his blogger. First he had Mycroft explain to John the truth of what had happened the day Sherlock fell. As loathe as he was to use his brother, he was also afraid John would dismiss him out of hand without giving him a chance to explain. John had to know the whole truth before he decided where to go from there.
John had a rough time of it the night he learned the truth. It was everything Sherlock could do not to break into their flat to try to comfort him. But Sherlock cared about his impact on others this time, and he wanted to do this as gently as he could.
In the end, Sherlock had designed a case for John; a careful series of clues and puzzles slowly revealing the truth, or at least putting suspicions of the truth in John's head. He'd used Mycroft, again. Mycroft had presented this 'case' to John as a training exercise, in case John wanted to work for him. Sherlock still didn't know exactly why, but John had taken the bait. He'd run all over London, just as they'd used to, tracking down Sherlock.
John found him, at last, in St. James park, standing by the pond. John had paused when he saw Sherlock standing there, like he just couldn't believe it, despite the previous clues and the evidence staring him in the face. For a moment John had braced himself on his knees, and Sherlock was afraid he would faint. Before Sherlock could start towards him, however, John picked himself up and ran for the consulting detective. Sherlock braced himself for an impact, mostly likely a beating. Surprisingly, John hadn't hit him. He'd just crashed into Sherlock, wrapping his arms tightly around the lithe frame as they both tumbled into the mud. Sherlock had wound his arms just as tightly around John. He held his blogger close as the anger and sadness came out. "You jerk!" John had hissed. "You sodding prick! You absolute bastard!"
"I'm sorry John. I'm so sorry," he'd murmured in between John's outbursts. After a few moments, John stopped yelling and sobbed quietly into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock carded his fingers through John's short hair, trying to calm him, ready to stay there all night if that's what John needed. John calmed, slowly. After a while Sherlock wondered if he had fallen asleep. That was when he spoke.
"You're back for good?" The sound was muffled by Sherlock's coat, and John seemed to have no intention of letting Sherlock go any time soon.
"Yes John," he said softly in the other man's ear, "I'm back for good."
John squeezed him tightly for a long moment, then began to get off him. John offered him a hand up and Sherlock took it. They stood together in the cool night air for a moment, just looking at each other. A cautious smile crept onto John's face, one which Sherlock returned.
"Dinner?" Sherlock inquired.
John let out a strangled laugh. "Starved, but I don't think I could keep anything down just now. I'm too hopped up on adrenaline. "
Sherlock nodded; he could see John shaking. "You are having breakfast tomorrow; no arguments."
John laughed again. "That's rich, coming from you."
"Then I will join you, to set a good example," Sherlock concluded.
John beamed up at him and nodded. "Sounds like a plan. For now, though, let's go home." John held out his arm and Sherlock took it. They stayed arm in arm through the cab ride, all the way into 221 B Baker Street.
Sherlock kept his arm linked with John's as they entered the flat, steering him towards the couch.
"Sherlock?" Confusion knitted John's brows as he looked sideways at the consulting detective. Sherlock tightened his grip on John's arm for a moment.
"You've been shaking since the park. I would be remiss if I let you go into shock. We're going to sit on the couch and watch crap telly until you are calmer."
John chuckled and leaned into Sherlock's shoulder as they came up to the couch. "I'm the doctor here," he murmured, "I think I would know if I was about to go into shock."
Sherlock just 'hmmmed' at John before separating their arms and settling himself on the sofa, his back against one arm. John joined him, sitting with his back against the back of the couch.
Sherlock reached forward and urged John to lie with his back against Sherlock's chest, nestled between his legs. As he did so he said, "Haven't you told me, more than once, that human contact can be helpful in most cases of shock? Isn't that why they hand out those orange blankets, to simulate someone being close?"
It was John's turn to 'hmm' as he settled himself back against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock was right, as usual, and he was too tired and strung out to protest. Besides, it was reassuring to feel the consulting detectives steady heartbeat behind him.
Sherlock swiped the remote and turned on the telly to some crap late night talk show. John and he talked as the show progressed. They commented on the dullness of the topic and (mostly Sherlock) the intelligence of the guest. It was quiet, easy conversation interspersed with soft chuckles. Sherlock's arm had snaked it's way around John's waist and John had laid his own hand over top, interlacing their fingers.
Eventually he felt John's heartbeat and breathing slow into a more normal, sleepy rhythm. Sherlock looked down at his best friend, the man he loved, and smiled. He could see John's eyes slowly drooping as his breathing evened out. If he was honest with himself, Sherlock was dead tired as well. Living off the grid for three years will do that to a person. When John's eyes had remained closed for five minutes Sherlock, with his free arm, quietly turned off the telly and pulled a blanket that had been resting over the back of the couch, over them. With a contented sigh Sherlock rested his cheek against the top of John's head and closed his eyes.
Sherlock's music reached out softly into the night, seeking, much like he was. The last, haunting notes hung in the air and he let his bow arm drop to his side. Things had slowly returned to normal after that night, over a year ago now. They were both the slightest bit more physically affectionate with each other, that is to say they hugged occasionally, and there were more casual touches. It was so much less than he wanted.
With a sigh Sherlock lowered his violin to his side. He placed both violin and bow on the coffee table before walking over to the large windows overlooking the street. The small changes in physical interactions and how they spoke to each other, with more trust and openness, felt natural to Sherlock. John was, in general, more affectionate than Sherlock. Given all they had been through, it was obvious he would be more affectionate with such a close friend. It was a struggle not to do more. Sherlock found himself pestering John more often...and missing him when he went to work. Most days he keenly felt the fine line he was walking with John; he didn't want his blogger to become suspicious.
What could he offer John in the way of a normal relationship, even if he did want it? Sherlock still loved his work. Even if he was no longer 'married' to it, his work was most certainly a mistress. One that would not be ignored or short-changed. That may work for their friendship, but he could never expect John to accept a relationship on those terms.
Sherlock raised a hand and rested it lightly against the cold glass, scanning the street below. His eyes tracked a couple walking with their arms around each other, braced against the cold wind. His heart ached. Sherlock blinked and shook his head. It was pointless to continue this train of thought. John wasn't gay. John did not love him back in the same way. They were friends and they were partners (working partners obviously). That would have to be enough.
Jerking his mind into a more productive train of thought, Sherlock considered his options for the night. His experiment would need more time to incubate. There were other experiments he could turn to, or cases he could review... hadn't John asked him to get some sleep? In addition to the small measure of satisfaction this would give Sherlock's feelings for John, it was also practical. There had been no new cases for a bit. Whether it was a new case tomorrow, or more experimenting he would be in better form if he got some rest.
Sherlock turned from the window, and started for his room. As he prepared to sleep he forcibly reviewed his experiments in his head. Practical. Stay practical. When his head hit the pillow, however, he was beyond fighting himself. Sherlock let his mind fill with the image of John asleep on his chest the night of his return. John was peaceful, reassuring, and he felt like home.