Two: Silence Speaks Louder
John Watson stands in the shower and lets the water run over him. It's lukewarm and the neutrality of the sensation is almost uncomfortable. Not cold, not hot. Just... water.
Thankfully, John Watson is used to uncomfortable.
He sighs and runs his hands through his hair, tousling it to make sure it's soaked through before reaching for the shampoo. It's a sleepy sort of morning and he doesn't want to go to the surgery because things with Sarah have been strained lately, but that particular strain is better than the frustration he faces at 221B.
He hasn't had a moment's peace since Mycroft dropped the proverbial bomb on the flat two weeks prior. Sherlock doesn't want to let him out of his sight-afraid that John will get himself into trouble if he isn't under constant surveillance. While Mycroft has assured his younger brother that the doctor is in no immediate danger with his men watching out for them, Sherlock seems unwavering in his belief that Mycroft's team is only good in emergency situations.
Which, to be honest, is kind of true. It's not like they were able to stop Moriarty from nearly blowing them up the first time.
But it's frustrating, to say the least. Even now, standing in the shower and lathering up his hair, he isn't alone. He knows Sherlock is on the other side of the door, staring at it with childlike fascination and listening for any signs of distress, as if Moriarty would be able to rig up a shower of bullets or poison the water supply.
Their dance has been perfected since that morning, of course. Sherlock-who has never been one for pretense-is quite alright with allowing John to go about his day as if he isn't constantly checking to make sure his friend is alive and well. And perhaps it's true that the concern goes both ways. John has never asked him to stop, and he thinks it's partly because he likes knowing that Sherlock is there.
Sherlock is gone from the other side of the door by the time John towels off and dresses for the day, and he is always quiet when he leaves his post at John's bedroom door when he's sure the doctor is asleep. Neither of them acknowledge the guardianship, though John isn't sure it's for his own comfort, or Sherlock's.
Maybe both.
Still frustrating. Even without spoken words, John feels the need to keep both of them comfortable, which means he can't indulge himself in a wank when he knows Sherlock is listening in. He could do it quietly, of course, but Sherlock would know. He always knows. He'd hear the water pattern shift in the shower or the rustling of John's bedclothes. And they wouldn't say anything, but John would know Sherlock knows and... well, that would be awkward.
Sure enough, when John returns to the sitting room ten minutes later, Sherlock is exactly where he left him, though he is still perusing the same page of the newspaper as when John excused himself to the shower.
He's about to say something about the paper's cover page being upside down when-
"Bored."
His eyes snap up from the leather-bound journal in his lap and he finds that he can't breathe. The intonation in the word seemed to hint at an inside joke, but that's just not possible. It's been so long since either of them have uttered that word, so long since there has been any glimpse of...
"Sorry?" he enquires, hands almost shaking as he moves the navy ribbon to mark his place in the book.
"Was that rude? I'm sorry." He worries his bottom lip for the briefest of moments. "I'm... bored," his partner replies. "How long is it until the story gets interesting?"
"In...teresting? Interesting how?"
"John is in love with Sherlock. It seems like neither of them know it. When do they figure it out?"
"Would you like me to skip to that part?" Normally, he wouldn't indulge such requests. He'd make him wait. But maybe today is the day. He has already brought up two memories from their past: The boredom-which wouldn't be significant to anyone but them-and the fact that neither of them realized their feelings. It was usually the job of the journal-of his voice reading out words written hastily on the page-to bring his lover back to him in fleeting moments. Today it seems to be the work of something else.
He would give into it even if these short bursts were his only reward.
"It's six weeks later, then. After Moriarty..." He trails off, his fingers carefully turning the pages. "John and Sherlock are at Baker Street."
It's strange how the constant vigilance has brought them to a new level of familiarity with each other. Moriarty twice reprised his role as Sherlock's biggest fan and most dangerous nemesis, but now that he was through, how could they possibly return to normal?
Yet they're trying, wordlessly.
John doesn't ask Sherlock if he wants tea, he just readies it with nervous hands, reaching into the cupboard and finding the sugar bowl with practiced certainty. The scorpion is long gone, though he still isn't sure if that's because it got loose and is somewhere in a dark corner waiting to sting John or because Sherlock disposed of it properly. He's afraid to ask.
He chuckles under his breath. After everything they've been through, that's the thing he's presently fearing. A confrontation about a bloody scorpion.
What has life come to?
The kettle whines on the stove and John sets his and Sherlock's mugs on the counter. It seems best to try to go back to life before five days ago-before they were taken, separately. Sherlock has made no indication that he wants to talk about it, and even though John is sure he'd fare much better if they could just discuss the kidnapping and subsequent mental anguish (that's the only way he can think to describe it, but he can't say for sure what Sherlock went through), their lives would be better for it.
Maybe his hands would stop shaking.
There's still a bit of water in the bottom of the kettle and it swishes about as he sets it back home on the stove. His fingers wrap around the striped handle of his mug and a fresh batch of memories are triggered-his striped jumper being torn from his body, blood being drawn entirely for the purpose of spreading it across the black and white lines. All of it to antagonize Sherlock.
"He believes us. Believes you're dead, John. And what a pity. He'll never know you could've been saved." Moriarty's voice echoes in the seemingly empty space between John's ears, all entertained, sing-song tenor with a deadly catch beneath.
Before he can register any passage of time, Sherlock's hand is wrapped around his; long fingers gently prying the handle away and setting the hot mug down before John realizes he's burned himself from the shaking.
He closes his eyes.
"I'll burn you, John Watson. Just like I promised." Moriarty leans in close, lowers his voice: "I'm a man of my word."
Sherlock doesn't say a word, just holds on to John's hands, tenderly touching the sensitive skin that is flushed red from the splashed tea. He's just deducing the extent of the wound, curiously applying pressure so he can ensure that it's not too serious. Sherlock Holmes is being careful.
John knows this is a step for Sherlock. Maybe even a leap. It's so... human. But he can't even acknowledge the occasion because everything keeps playing back behind his open eyes and he can't ignore the burning, the smell of smoke and the thickness of fire in his lungs.
It's a strange sensation. He can see Sherlock before him, he knows he's safe at Baker Street. There's no immediate danger, but he's being suffocated by the memories. He doesn't even have to use his vast medical knowledge to know that this is post-traumatic stress disorder at its finest, yet he can't exactly break himself away from it just because he has a diagnosis.
"John, look at me."
Sherlock's voice is firm, but not forceful. John manages to tear his eyes away from the unfocused stare he'd caught himself in and he looks up at Sherlock, meeting the other man's clear eyes and holding his gaze. It's hard to fight back the memories that this brings to the surface. He remembers Sherlock nearly shoving Mycroft's minion to the ground in his effort to make sure that John is conscious-the way his eyes had been wild with worry and the hint of something else behind blatant fear. His face had been stained with smoke and John thinks about how he hadn't cared that the warehouse was on fire, just that Sherlock was alive and that they were both going to be okay.
At the time, alive and okay was all he'd wanted.
They hold each other's eyes for another moment, just breathing as John tries to ground himself at 221B Baker Street, here and now. He swallows and licks his lips as he comes back into reality more fully, realizing just how close Sherlock is standing to him; the reality of his injured hand cradled in Sherlock's cool, slender ones.
Sherlock doesn't say a word, and John expects the other man to be bored of this situation at any moment. Even though he doesn't want to think that Sherlock is simply using this opportunity to observe a man experiencing PTSD, he can't help but think that Sherlock is storing away every bit of this for future reference.
As expected, Sherlock drops his hands and turns to walk out of the kitchen, leaving behind John and the mugs of fresh (albeit slightly spilled) tea. John is about to turn back to the mess caused by his unaddressed shaking when Sherlock reappears in the doorway, observing him quietly.
He wants me to follow him, John realizes. He flexes his burned hand and walks toward him, slowly, unsure of where this unspoken invitation will lead.
When Sherlock pushes open his bedroom door a moment later, he stops and waits for John to enter first, and there is the briefest flash of uncertainty mixed with a fear of rejection that crosses over Sherlock's face. Anyone else would have missed it, but John knows by now that any glimpse of emotion to pass those angular features will be instantaneous. Thus, he pays very, very close attention to Sherlock Holmes.
Right now, he has no idea where this is going, and he isn't even quite certain of his own feelings on the matter, but he isn't going to let Sherlock's invitation go unaccepted. He steps through the threshold and into the dark room.
It's very rare that John Watson pays a visit to this particular room of their flat. Sherlock's room is-and will likely always be-something of a mystery to him. For the first several months of their cohabitation, the doctor had wondered if Sherlock even had a bed, or if he simply powered himself down wherever he was at the time that his body finally gave way to the human need for rest. After he realized that Sherlock really did sleep, he'd entered the room once to wake Sherlock when Lestrade showed up on one of those rare, sleepy occasions.
Sherlock's room is always dark. There is no light bulb installed. Sherlock's logic is that if he's in there to sleep-which is primarily what he uses the room for, aside from storage of old files-he doesn't need the light, so why bother? It's lit enough by the streetlamps outside and the faint lighting in the flat itself, so John can see the outlines of all the clutter and mess strewn about the room. Sherlock's dresser is covered in papers and file folders, as is nearly every other surface in the room except the bed.
He turns back to Sherlock, who has now closed the door, eliminating much of the light in the room with a soft click. Without a word, Sherlock moves past him to the left side of the bed and stands there for a long moment, silently watching John with a questioning, curious sort of expression that tells John that this isn't Sherlock's area.
John wants to ask a myriad of questions, but he finds that he's too busy choking on his own rapid heartbeat, though he can't tell if it's from the uncertain anticipation growing in his chest or because he's just had a near-breakdown in their kitchen. Either way, he bites back his words in favor of Sherlock's (and perhaps his own) comfort and moves to the right side of the bed.
They hold each other's eyes in the dark and turn down the blankets at the same time. It's not late enough to go to bed-it's only half nine-and neither of them are in their night clothes. Sherlock is still wearing a charcoal grey suit over a light blue dress shirt, and John is wearing a burgundy jumper and a pair of old jeans. But it seems natural to simply toe off their shoes-Sherlock's expensive dress shoes and John's ratty sneakers-and kick them aside before crawling into the bed.
He finds that another thing that seems natural-and perhaps this is due entirely to the flood of memories and the desperate fear he'd experienced only minutes ago-is that he can get into the bed with his back to Sherlock and not worry that the other man will simply lay on his back and stare at the ceiling for the rest of the night. No, John fully expects Sherlock's arms to wrap around him, and as the bed dips behind him, needs John didn't even know he had are appeased.
Sherlock's long body presses against John's as his arms snake around John, pulling him closer. His fingers thread together just above John's heart and John lets his hands trail up Sherlock's arms for just a moment before taking hold of his wrists, holding him in place.
Perhaps for the first time since Mycroft turned up two months ago, John feels safe; at peace. Even so, his heart races below Sherlock's hands. This is uncharted, dangerous territory that they are willingly occupying. Behind him, through the layers of Sherlock's suit and skin, John can feel Sherlock's heart mimicking his own caged hummingbird.
The other man presses his forehead against the back of John's head and his breath ghosts across the nape of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine and making his hair stand on edge as though it just wants to get closer to Sherlock. It seems like they stay like this for hours, just laying and holding each other; relishing in the safety of the darkened room, the warmth of the sort of company they never knew they could be to one another.
As they each start to drift into what is bound to be the best night of sleep they've had in ages, John feels a warm, tentative brush of lips against the small bump where his shoulders meet his neck. It's too apprehensive and too chaste to be accidental, and he doesn't want it to go unacknowledged, so he squeezes Sherlock's hands and leans back against him, accepting.
A quiet sigh passes over the same skin as Sherlock's lips and his arms tighten reflexively, as if Sherlock has decided that now that he knows John is willing, he is never going to let him go again.
When sleep silently takes him a few moments later, John can't help thinking he'd be alright with being held captive by Sherlock Holmes for the rest of his life.
