Thank you to everyone who has read this story and many, many hugs to those of you who have started following it. It means so much. Truly.
As always, reviews to me are what cake is to Mycroft. They make my life complete. I'm still waiting on my first review - so to that special person who leaves me my first review, Sherlock will give you one of his real, legit, genuine smiles! Now you know you want to be that special someone.
Oh yes, and a variation of the pool scene from Season 1, Episode 3 is in here - but emphasis on the word variation. In other words, it will not be like the pool scene in the episode so, if that's one of your favourite scenes, my apologies for changing it on you. Please forgive me.
"...all my soul within me burning."
-Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven" (1845)
"We're not a couple." John had uttered this statement so many times, he had lost count. And at first, the words had been said with anger and frustration. Because how in this world could people think that dependable, loyal, compassionate John would ever date the arrogant, cold, machine-like Sherlock Holmes?
Yet, as time went on, John began to utter the words with longing. No, they were not a couple...but boy did he wish that they were. Because why in this world wouldn't danger-craving, risk-taking, gun-wielding John be attracted to the brilliant, heroic, completely gorgeous, and very human Sherlock Holmes?
John would never forget the day that he realized just how much he wanted Sherlock. The day that the consulting detective set John's world on fire. Though it had started out just like any other day (John waking up to find that Sherlock had replaced his breakfast in the fridge with a severed head, while Sherlock lay dramatically across the couch hissing and moaning about how boring everything was), it was the day that John went and got himself kidnapped. The day that he had gone for a simple walk in the park, had been beaten unconscious, and had woken up full of bruises at the local swimming pool, with bombs strapped to his chest and a glassy-eyed Sherlock Holmes leaning over him, breathing warm, heavy, and frightened gasps across the doctor's swollen skin, pale fingers frantically trying to crack the bomb's code. "John...what the hell...John...John...John..."
And though John should have been afraid, though John should have been distraught, he was perhaps happier than he had ever been - because how could he never have seen how beautiful (how fucking beautiful) Sherlock Holmes was before? How had he never noticed the way that Sherlock's eyes swirled blue, grey, green, and gold all at once - a feverish, wonderful, fierce tango of colour and brilliance? How had he never smelled the rich thickness and musky sweetness that was unique to Sherlock Holmes before this moment? And how could he have been such an idiot to think this curly-haired man a machine when here before him was proof that Sherlock was, in fact, the most frightened, vulnerable, magnificently human human being in the world?
Where the detective's eyes were normally cold and emotionless, now they had begun to turn a ghastly shade of red. And, though John had seen the detective confront criminals and murderers twice his size without a moment's hesitation, now those normally-steady hands were trembling intensely. "John...I can't figure out the code...John...I can't figure it out..." Sherlock finally whispered breathlessly, his eyebrows knitted in frustration, eyes radiating energy. And then...finally...that look of complete comprehension washed over the detective's fine features and he entered the code into the bomb's timer within a matter of milliseconds.
As the bomb deactivated, the detective unravelled the contraption from the doctor's swollen body, threw it across the length of the pool, and sagged wearily into John's form. John could feel Sherlock's heart throbbing against his chest and the sensation sent the former army doctor's innards on fire; a warm, comfortable, strong, friendly fire that lapped in all the right places. And then, Sherlock was laughing against John, a mirthful, adrenaline-laced sound that rang through the air as sweet as honey and which inevitably sent John into his own set of hysterical, joyful chuckles.
They clutched at one another, laughing and giggling, and John gasped out in between breaths, "You ripping stuff off me in a darkened swimming pool...now people are really going to talk...about us...as a couple..."
Sherlock's breathing steadied and he pulled away from the shorter man. His voice was gentle but terse as he replied, "People do little else."
A silence consumed them then.
Finally, John spoke. "Does it bother you that people talk about us in that way?"
Sherlock did not hesitate in his response. "No, not at all."
And before John knew what he was doing, his hands were caressing the detective's chiselled cheeks, he was ignoring Sherlock's sharp intake of breath, and he was crushing his lips against the plump, tender lips of the detective, trying to convey all of his emotions (his frustration, his agitation, his gratitude, his love, his passion, his anger, all of it) within the warmth and intensity of the kiss.
The doctor's stomach churned with pleasure when he heard Sherlock moan contentedly against him. John could feel the detective's lips turn upward in a genuine smile, and the detective's fingers started massaging gently at the various bruises that covered the doctor's body. But then, in the next moment, there were firm hands against John's chest and Sherlock frowned before hissing an adamant, "No."
And when Sherlock pulled away from the doctor, his sea blue eyes were once again cold and his angular features were once again hard.
The fire in John's heart weakened for an instant but then crackled and re-ignited with a hotness like never before. Sherlock had been enjoying their moment of intimacy - John was sure of it. He searched the detective's face for an answer but found the curly-haired man's expression absolutely unreadable.
Clearing his throat, John asked in a pathetically quiet voice, "Why not?"
Sherlock's tone was coarse and curt. "I've told you before, I am married to my work. I crave the stability of it; the fact that the work - the evidence, the data - is based on reason, it is rational. Caring is not stable, John. It is not based on reason. It is not rational. It makes the mind weak. Because if you care, you will get hurt. I will not make the mistake of caring. Don't you see that it is a disadvantage?"
"But this...you saving me...didn't you do it because you care about me?" John questioned in a small but hopeful tone.
The consulting detective gave John an intense stare but remained silent. Then he stood up and walked away, his coat billowing after him. Where the fire had blazoned in John's heart but minutes before, he now felt cold and damp and utterly hollow. The pain of the bruises covering his body engulfed his mind and sent him into tears.
And from then on, every time he had to tell someone, "We're not a couple," the desire and longing within his body threatened to push him to the point of exploding. Because no, they were not a couple...but boy did he wish that they were. He wished it more than anything in the entire universe.
But then he met Mary Morstan. Mary, with her gentle blonde hair, warm blue eyes, and sweet sweet smile. Sympathetic, full-hearted, utterly caring Mary. And though she did not ignite a fire in the former army doctor's heart, she did ignite a flurry of butterflies in his stomach and that felt very nice indeed.