A/N: Some fluff ahead. Hope it goes over well ;) Thanks to all my readers. Reviews, please!
They'd never really used the roof of 221B Baker Street before, for the simple reason that it wasn't meant to be used—only accessible by the fire escape and some tricky maneuvering around some wiring and Mrs Hudson's antenna. But Sherlock wanted a smoke, and he didn't much care to loiter in front of the building where he could be easily caught by the landlady. So Sherlock and John found themselves on the precariously-slanted roof, the last rays of sun painting London in a hazy golden light.
Sherlock drew a box of cigarettes from the pocket of his Belstaff, mouthing one and lighting it with a practiced air of indifference. He took a long drag, sighing around the smoke as he exhaled. He turned to John, his eyebrows creeping up, when he heard another lighter flick.
"You smoke now?" he asked his flatmate, tapping ash from his fag.
John shrugged. "Only thing that seemed to help with the depression." He took a long drag, eyes flicking to the taller man. "I didn't comment when you said you wanted a smoke. I'd appreciate the same courtesy."
Sherlock nodded, although he couldn't take his eyes off the doctor.
They remained silent for a few moments, leaning against different sides of the chimney, puffing away. Finally, John said, "The text?"
"Mm." Sherlock pinched the cigarette between his thumb and index finger, running his free hand through a mop of curly brown hair. "Lestrade said he ordered a tox screen and autopsy on the first victim, but something came up. Wants you to meet him at Bart's."
John nodded, absorbing the information thoughtfully.
"Tell me about the case." Sherlock's voice was bored, but John noticed the unbridled curiosity in the man's grey eyes.
John filled him in about his trip to the prison, the not-dead second victim, the first victim, and the nature of the deaths. He was exhausted when he finished, having spoken more than he had in months. He flicked his cigarette butt over the side of the building.
Sherlock got that wild look he always got when a key detail became obvious to him. "How quickly was the first body removed from the prison after he was pronounced dead?"
"I don't know," John said. "You have as much information as I do at this point. Why?"
"Because your first victim isn't really dead either," he snapped, lighting a second fag.
The dots connected slowly for John, and the truth of Sherlock's implication smothered him more effectively than a pillow held to his face. "Oh god," he murmured, standing upright. "That man is alive… was alive. Awaiting burial, cremation. An autopsy. Christ." John hurried back down the fire escape, fumbling one-handedly with his mobile to dial Lestrade as he climbed.
Sherlock watched, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
John burst through the doors to the morgue, panting. Lestrade's assurances over the phone that the victim hadn't been buried, lit up, or carved into while alive didn't do much to quell the panic in his gut. A small, nagging part of his brain wished for his flatmate's presence; he would deduce all the danger away, put his mind at ease more easily than any of Lestrade's vague platitudes. John shook his head, forcing those thoughts away. He was still angry at the man.
"Where is he?" John demanded.
Lestrade and Molly Hooper turned to him. "John," Lestrade called, approaching him, "calm down."
That was the last thing he wanted to do, calm down. But he suppressed a smart remark when Lestrade placed a firm hand on his good shoulder.
"He's gone. Vanished. I ordered the body be brought here for the tox screen and autopsy. The body bag the mortuary dropped off contained the wrong bloke. A homeless man, nobody thought he'd be missed. The mortuary claims they don't know how it happened, and have searched their facility high and low for our man, but he's gone. And since they don't have security footage inside their building, we have nothing to go off of."
John felt himself coming down from his panic-high. He placed a shaky hand on a table to steady himself. "This wasn't a murder," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "This was a prison break."
Lestrade nodded. "We need to talk to the second victim—he knows more about this than he's letting on. You can't exactly plan a prison break without communicating with the prisoner."
John shoved off the table, feeling more solid. He looked at Molly, who was paler than usual. "Who's this poor sod?" he murmured, gesturing to the man in the body bag.
She frowned. "We're not sure. He's not in our system. But his appearance suggests he was homeless."
"Was he murdered?"
"I don't think so," Molly replied quietly. "I'll need to perform a full autopsy to be sure, but there are no indicators of violent death. No defensive wounds, no foreign skin under his fingernails to indicate a struggle."
John nodded stiffly. That was good. No one had been killed to smuggle the prisoner out—at least, no one they were aware of yet. "Did you get the tox screen back on our second man?"
Molly bent beside the table, retrieving a manila folder from a bag. She flipped it open, handing him a paper-clipped stack of papers. "You were right about the drug. There was enough tetrodotoxin in his system to cause an overdose, leading to the death-like state. It's nothing short of a miracle that he was able to recover from it, let alone so quickly."
The two doctors were left mystified. The numbers on the man's bloodwork were staggering. It should have been a lethal dose, or left him comatose. Yet he'd been perfectly healthy when John had examined him.
"I need to get back over to the prison to question him," Lestrade said, breaking the silence. "Something's going on, and I don't like it. Donovan is already on her way to the mortuary to question the personnel, but I don't suspect anything will shake out over there." He began shouldering into his jacket, which had been thrown across a clean table. "I'll keep you apprised, John. Might need your expertise."
When the detective inspector had left, Molly smiled tightly and took John's hand. "You look better, John. I'm glad to see it."
John gave her hand a small squeeze. "I'm feeling a bit better, yeah. Thanks." He dropped her hand. "I'll leave you to it."
"See you around," she said to his retreating back.
Sherlock was down from the roof, back in the flat, when John returned. The detective had his violin tucked under his chin, his empty bow-hand ghosting over the strings in a silent melody. He didn't turn when the front door banged shut. John tossed his coat across his armchair.
"Sherlock—" he began, but the man shushed him.
"This is the best part," he murmured, continuing his pantomime bowing. After a few moments, he placed the instrument carefully back into its case. "What did Lestrade show you?" he asked, snapping the lid shut.
"A confusing mess," John said, reliving the scene at the morgue.
When he finished, Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "Of course, Lestrade is going about this all wrong. There's no point in questioning the second victim; he doesn't know anything."
John started to ask how Sherlock knew that, but stopped himself, shaking his head. At this point, he could just trust the statement as fact. "Alright, well how should he be going about it?"
Sherlock sunk into his armchair, hands steepled below his chin. "Records of prison deaths, obviously, within the past month. Find out who else is being sprung from jail. The connections between the 'victims' will lead you to whoever is granting their freedom. Yes, don't look at me like that, John. There are most likely others; this game-player has demonstrated resources and planning to be operating on a larger scale." And because he was Sherlock bloody Holmes, he didn't need John to ask how he knew the second victim was innocent. "Either the mastermind behind this—if he could be called that—is a complete idiot—possible, I grant—or your second man was a mistake—in which case, he's still a bloody idiot. One mysterious death in a prison is likely to be overlooked. Two and you have the police sniffing around. So only the first man was intended to receive a dose of tetrodotoxin. I suspect you'll find single inmate deaths in solitary throughout London, perhaps all of England."
John began typing away on his phone. He hesitated, glancing at the detective. "Lestrade will suspect something when I'm making your brilliant deductions."
Sherlock gestured vaguely. "Then make them sound less brilliant. You're good at that."
"Git," John huffed, sending the text.
It was late evening by this point. The windows were dark, but periodically something small and white would flash by. It caught John's eye, and he looked to the window. Tiny snowflakes fluttered about; they seemed so small and fragile. He approached, pressing his right palm to the frigid pane. The wind continued to buffet the flurries about, heedless of John's sorrowful expression.
John sensed the presence behind him right before long arms enveloped him, pale hands clasped in front of his waist.
"Sherlock—?" he said, starting to turn in the man's embrace.
Those arms tightened around him. They were strong, warm, comforting. John let out a sigh, melting slightly. The fabric of Sherlock's Belstaff was soft against his cheek; he smelled of wool, smoke, and something distinctly Sherlock. Alive. He's here. He's alive. Each breath that skirted through John's hair reaffirmed that simple fact.
"I am so sorry, John," the detective breathed into his hair. "You are… the single most important thing to me on this earth. I don't expect you to forgive me, but—"
This time John managed to turn in Sherlock's arms, staring up into his grey eyes, too close to look away or think or breathe. "I've already forgiven you," he said, barely a whisper, running a gentle touch over the bruise on the man's right cheek. Then he fiercely wrapped his arms around Sherlock, burying his face into his chest.
They simply stood there, wrapped up in each other, feeling their shared heartbeats. It was so delightfully warm. John felt safe for the first time since Sherlock's fall, secure in the man's embrace. Relief flooded him as he breathed in Sherlock's scent; yet, he couldn't stop the tremors in his hands, clenching the wool coat tightly in his fingers, afraid that if he loosened his grip or opened his eyes that Sherlock would be gone again. He felt the detective begin to end the hug, and the thought was so terrifying that he tightened his grip, almost painfully, squeezing his eyes shut. Don't let go. Just stay with me a bit longer.
"John," Sherlock said, his voice muffled against his head, "you're trembling."
Firmly, the detective broke the contact, holding him at arm's length, looking into his eyes. John almost cried for the loss of contact, cold seeping in where there had been warmth. "John, look at me."
Hesitantly, John raised his gaze. This overwhelming need to touch and hold his friend left him feeling pathetic, ashamed. He wanted to curl in on himself and sink into the floorboards. He was a soldier, damn it. He didn't need to be coddled and held like a scared child. He was better than that.
But there was no disgust or judgment in Sherlock's penetrating look. His grey eyes softened, and he ran a smoothing hand down John's cheek. "You're crying," he breathed. "Why are you crying?"
John couldn't stand it anymore. He pulled Sherlock into him roughly, hiding his tear-streaked face against the man's lapels. "Oh god, I've missed you so much," he choked, curling his fingers into the detective's navy scarf. "I've missed you so much."
Sherlock hesitated a moment, then wrapped his arms around John once more, his right hand stroking his short hair. "I'm here."
"Don't you ever do that again!" John sobbed against the man's chest. "Don't ever disappear again. I couldn't stand it."
"I won't," Sherlock promised.
When all his tears were spent, John released his grip on Sherlock's scarf. He wiped his eyes with his knuckles stubbornly. He hadn't cried in so long, not like that. It was exhausting. "Look at me," John muttered, turning away. "I'm an absolute mess." His eyes were red and puffy, and his nose threatened to run.
"No," Sherlock said, scrutinizing him with bright eyes.
"No?" John looked at Sherlock, immobile under his direct gaze.
"No, John, you're not a mess," the detective repeated. "You're absolutely beautiful." He closed the distance, one hand cradling his head, the other at his hip, and kissed him.
The shock died quickly as warmth spread from John's lips to his toes. He closed his eyes, placing his hands on Sherlock's slim hips, and focused on the soft sensation of their lips meeting tenderly. It was slow, each kiss like an embrace. Their lips fit together perfectly, melding with each meeting. John didn't want it to end. Why can't we stay like this? The rest of the world can sod off.
It was over before John would have liked; cold air met his lips where Sherlock's warmth had been before. He opened his eyes slowly, feeling drugged, to see the detective looking at him with half-lidded eyes, his breathing unsteady.
"I've had a lot of time to think these past six months," Sherlock said shakily, "and I must confess that overwhelmingly I have thought of you. What you mean to me. What I would do if I ever got the chance to see you again." His head bobbed forward, as if unconsciously going for another kiss, eyes on John's lips. But he caught himself, as if falling, eyes returning to John's incredulous gaze. "I… I am not a sentimental man, John Watson, but you make me feel things, and I'm not sure I don't want to feel them anymore."
When John didn't immediately reply, Sherlock continued. "I know you don't feel the same. I know you don't, and that's alright. But I've spent all this time away, my life in constant danger, and I couldn't bear the thought of leaving this earth without expressing how much you mean to me."
"Sherlock," John croaked.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, creating space between them. He tightened his scarf around his neck. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I'm going to get some air." He opened the window, long legs disappearing over the sill. The last thing John saw was his mop of chocolate curls as he ducked his head out. A bitter chill left was left in his wake.
John stood, hugging himself against the cold. Why was it so damn cold without Sherlock? The man was brilliant and warm like the sun; a shadow fell when he wasn't around.
Without grabbing his coat from the armchair, John crawled out the window after him. The wind struck him like a train, instantly setting his teeth to chatter. The fire escape was like ice as he climbed, his hands quickly becoming numb. Snow danced around him, clinging to his jumper.
"Sherlock!" he called, stumbling onto the roof. He scrambled for purchase; his foot found a slick, snow-covered patch and he slipped, ramming his knee into the metal. Then he began to slide to the edge of the roof, the ground looming three stories below.
"Got you!"
John had stopped sliding, his legs dangling. A firm grip anchored his wrist. "Sherlock," he breathed.
Sherlock heaved him back to safety, back into his arms. "You're an idiot, John Watson," he hissed into the shorter man's hair.
But John wasn't to be chastised right now. He ruffled out of Sherlock's grasp, glaring up at him. "You're the idiot, you big berk. You blindside me by declaring your feelings for me down there and then you… you flee before I have the chance to say anything!"
The detective ducked his head. "I'm sure I didn't want to hear what you were going to say."
"Look," John sighed, taking his flatmate's hands. "I'm confused and mixed up. I need time to sort out how I feel. And I'm still trying to get over you… being dead. And being not-dead. We can't just pick up right where things left off. Regardless of everything, you are the greatest man I've ever known and my best mate. Please… give me some time to think about it."
Sherlock gave him a small smile, hesitantly placing a chaste kiss on his forehead. "You have time. You have as much time as you need. Now," he said, tone becoming businesslike, "you banged your knee pretty badly. We should go in and ice it."
"I'm the doctor here, and I say it's had enough ice for one night."
But they soon made their way back into the flat, and John couldn't help but notice how gentle and caring Sherlock was with him, a steady hand at the small of his back as he climbed down the now-treacherous fire escape. He felt warm all over, despite the freezing cold. So warm from his core to his fingertips. He pressed into Sherlock's lingering touch, telling himself he was still swept up in the emotion of evening. Nothing more. Tomorrow, everything would be back to the way things always were between the two.
And he tried desperately to convince himself that the thought didn't leave him sad. Friends. It had been good enough for so long. It would be good enough again. John was certain.
A/N: Hehehe John and his crisis of sexuality. Please drop a comment! I'd love it.