"You can't join the bloody military, John! You are going to be a Doctor. A damn fine one, too. I don't care if you don't want to be a surgeon anymore. Go be a bloody oncology professor for all I care, but you will be a doctor. A decent, proper doctor. Not some half-wit who couldn't be tossed to do a full residency and just went gallivanting across Afghanistan on a lark."
Charles Watson could yell and rage until he was blue in the face. John was already enlisted and was starting a four year tour in Afghanistan. Before he left his parents' home, the house where he grew up, John kissed his crying mother good-bye. He offered his hand to his father only to have it ignored. John only nodded, hurt but understanding. He closed the door behind him with a soft click, walked down the pathway to his car, and drove away.
That was almost eight years ago.
John hadn't seen nor spoken to his parents since that conversation. Now, he was waiting with Sherlock in their little flat for his parents to arrive.
They had finally managed to get home two days after they had gotten engaged. After telling the rest of Sherlock's family, Enola insisted on having a small party to celebrate. John met many other relatives of Sherlock's and learned that he was apparently due to inherit the title of Lord from a distant uncle who favored his work.
It was all more than John was used to. He was finally able to relax while Andrew was driving them home. Sherlock typed away at his phone, undoubtedly interrogating Lestrade for a new case.
John just settled back in the seat and fell asleep, rocked by the steady movement of the car above the pavement.
Now, though, he was back to being high strung and on edge. John paced about the flat; making tea, only nearly drinking the whole pot, making more.
Sherlock sat calmly perusing the photographs that Lestrade dropped off the day before. Two dead in a warehouse a block from the Thames. The bodies were untouched save for the fact that they didn't have any heads. Sherlock was enthralled.
The doorbell rang and John snatched the papers away, quickly stuffing them in the already full desk drawer.
"Do I look alright? Do we have enough tea? Do you think they'll mind the mess?" John fretted. Sherlock just dipped his head and pressed a chaste kiss against John's lips.
The flat had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. John was relentless in his cleaning. Sherlock had never seen the normally easy going man turn into a starchy housewife.
John walked down the stairs, drew a deep breath, and pulled the door open.
His parents stood there on the landing. His mother immediately flung herself into his arms, going on about how much she had missed him and how happy she was that he called.
She released him and John was left to face his father. The uncertainty was palpable, neither sure of the others' reaction. Then, without warning to pretense, Charles embraced his son.
"I'm so proud of you, kid."
It was all John could do to hug him back, completely thrown by the unexpected sincerity.
John led them both upstairs to where Sherlock waited on the sofa. He looked pristine and immaculate and completely absorbed within his own mind.
John gave a small cough and Sherlock was brought back from the warehouse by the Thames.
"Mum, Dad, this is Sherlock Holmes." John introduced.
John's mum hugged Sherlock as well. Sherlock, thankfully, gracefully reciprocated. Sherlock Shook Charles's hand.
"Firm handshake. Good on ya'," Charles remarked.
John hadn't told his parents that he and Sherlock were engaged. That was the purpose of having them here.
"Tea?" John offered.
"Certainly, thank-you." Nodded his mum.
John gave Sherlock a look before going into the kitchen to get the tea.
Sherlock ushered John's parents to the sofa and tossed out a false complement each. Sherlock hated John's parents. They caused John so much pain throughout his life, especially his father. John spent much of his adult life trying to prove to his father that the things he said that day were wrong. That he wasn't gallivanting across the desert because he was foolish. Trying to prove that he was honorable and was fighting for one of the few things that he really had faith in.
Sherlock wanted Charles Watson to know exactly how much he broke John, how much John tried to hide it. He wanted that man to understand that if he ever hurt John again, that he would find himself his own personal sociopath recklessly intent on his personal destruction.
Of course, Sherlock hid this behind a very convincing mask of pleasantries and small talk.
John returned with the tea, offering one to each of them before taking a sip of his own. He and Sherlock occupied their separate arm chairs, now pushed considerably closer together; their elbows nearly touching.
"So how is this new detective business of yours going?" Charles asked, "I heard you work with the Yard."
"It's going well, very well actually. Sherlock is the best consultant they have. Brilliant the things he observes." John replied.
"It's really not that important, John. Anyone could do it if they only opened their eyes to see beyond the bridge of their own noses." Sherlock didn't realize that he was coming off as a prat again.
"He's being modest," John said to his father, "Sherlock really is exceptional."
Charles watched the exchange with a sharp eye. He was lot of things, but daft could not be added to that list.
"So when, son, did you think you'd tell us that you had switched teams?" Charles said, his voice calm, but his body betraying his real thoughts.
John's parents had enough trouble accepting Harry, he was so unsure of how they would react to him.
"I-well-you see, Dad," John stammered.
"I think it's lovely, sweetheart." John's mum offered. She was always so sweet, so caring, and so understanding. Did not matter that people were different form her; it was fine, it was all fine.
"Thanks, Mum." John said. He was reassured by his mother's understanding.
Sherlock was tense. Insults were coiling and writhing on the tip of his tongue. If Charles spoke against John, he was being thrown out of this flat; bodily thrown out the window if necessary.
"Is it because of the army? Did they do this to you?" Charles said. Still calm, still steady.
"No, dad," John stated, simply.
"Mr. Watson," Sherlock began, "I would kindly like to ask just what the hell your problem seems to be with your son's sexual orientation. He is a perfectly honorable man and his merits are immediately discarded at the thought of his preferring men over women. So unless you should like to be branded as a hypocrite so soon after your declaration of pride, I would like an explanation."
"I will not be spoken to this way by a sorry excuse for a consultant. Too lazy to go out and get a proper job like a normal bloke, hm? Just at the state of this place I can tell that neither of you have a penny to his name and you're probably conning the Yard. The pair of you, a disgrace to England."
John stood up so fast his chair toppled over.
"We're getting married you arse!"
They all froze; John standing and red in the face, Charles sitting looking up at his son in disbelief, his wife looking at her son with a mixture of admiration and concern, Sherlock absolutely beaming.
"If you have a problem with that, Dad, that you can leave our flat," John lowered his voice and addressed his mum, "You're welcome to the wedding if you'd like. We have no date, no plan, and no idea what we're doing, but that's just fine."
Sherlock stood beside John, his height bringing him considerably higher than the still sitting Charles. Sherlock wrapped his hand in John's and gave it a reassuring squeeze. I was the pair of them against whatever the world wanted to throw at them. Always the pair of them.
Sherlock turned his eyes down as though looking upon a rat in the sewers, "You are free to go, Charles. Thank-you for coming. John was so eager to tell you our exciting news. He was glad to see you and a bit worried that you wouldn't attend considering that you didn't see him in the hospital nor at the ceremony when he received his Victoria Cross. I'm glad he got a chance to see you before you died."
Every word dripped like venom from a snake. They coiled and snapped, hitting right where it would hurt the most. The last sentence left hanging in the air like an empty noose.
John's parents quietly left. The door closed behind them with a soft click, they walked down the pathway to their car, and drove away.
John's shoulders slumped. He sat down heavily on the couch. John would only ever let Sherlock see him like this; broken, sad, uncertain. He rested his head on the armrest and drew his legs up to his chest.
Sherlock only stood there, watching as John was drawn within himself, lost in memories of his parents. Stepping away for a moment, Sherlock returned with tea. He set it on the table by John's head and kneeled on the floor before him.
Sherlock shed his jacket and the tie that he grudgingly put on for John that morning. He reached his hand up and began stroking John's hair, curling his fingers around the hair at the nape of his neck.
They sat like that in silence for a while. Sherlock had completely forgotten about the warehouse and the Thames and the bodies left without heads. His mind was saturated with John. It was pounding through his very core. John. John John. John. John.
Finally, John exhaled and sat up. Sherlock quickly occupied the space where his torso had previously been. Sherlock drew John close to him and pressed a kiss against his forehead. This easy silent communication perfected after two years' practice.
They went upstairs to bed.
Somewhere between walking up the stairs and stepping out of the shower, John's mindset changed.
He realized that he didn't need his parents' approval to marry Sherlock. He didn't need his parents to take him by the hand and tell him how glad they were that he was theirs. John didn't need his father to tell his work buddies about how his son was a war hero. He didn't need his mum telling her book club that her son had earned the Victoria Cross. He didn't need either of them to tell the family at Christmas how great it was that John was solving crimes in London with his husband. He was a god damn grown man. Their approval be damned.
Sherlock was expecting John to step out of the bathroom much the same as he stepped into it. Instead, John walked out stark naked, took Sherlock's book, and tossed it to the floor. He pulled down the sheets and straddled Sherlock's hips. He leaned in for a rough, painful kiss. Sherlock's arms brought John's still damp body against his own flesh, holding his close. Sherlock always slept naked, there was no undressing or foreplay.
They were both achingly hard already. John began rutting against Sherlock and making the most gorgeous noises. Sherlock reached between them and took both of their cocks in his hand. His long fingers working them both quickly to the edge.
"No, Sherlock. I want to fuck you." John breathed out.
Without waiting for a response, he reached for the lube and rolled Sherlock onto his front.
Face pressed into the pillow and length trapped between flush skin and cotton sheets, Sherlock shivered with anticipation. He let out a gasp as John worked one finger in, quickly adding a second.
John withdrew his fingers and replaced them with his tongue. He licked and sucked and teased Sherlock wide open; reduced him to a writhing sensitive mess.
John spread lube across his length and filled Sherlock's willing arse. Finally, he slowed their pace. John fucked Sherlock with long, steady strokes. They weren't enough and John knew it.
"Harder, John. For fucks sake fuck me harder." Sherlock called, voice muffled in the pillow.
John complied, quickening his pace until the slap of skin on skin and the sour smell of sex permeated the air of their bedroom.
They both came in a flurry of movement, unashamed groans, and clenching of muscles.
John pulled out of Sherlock and rolled over so they lay side by side.
"I-uhm-I'm sorry about that." John said, the faintest hint of red creeping up his collar.
"Oh, why on earth would you be sorry? Fuck that was amazing." Sherlock was still catching his breath. John could be so careful and pleasing, but Sherlock preferred when John was desperate and passionate and borderline vicious.
"I'll just, you know…" John climbed out of bed and returned with a warm, damp towel. He wiped them both off and pulled down the sheet that had a wet spot on Sherlock's come spread across its middle.
They both curled up under the comforter and John rested his head on Sherlock's chest.
"Do I even want to know what brought that about?" Sherlock asked, his lips pressed in John's tousled hair.
"I realized that I'm a grown man."
"I'm glad that you've finally come to this conclusion, but I don't see how knowledge of your own life stage results in a shag that good. Not that I'm complaining, of course."
"I don't need my dad to need me."
Then Sherlock understood. It was, in a way, an act of defiance. John was a grown man and was going to make love with Sherlock as much as he damn well pleased. John was going to marry Sherlock because he wanted to, Charles be damned.
It was a strange feeling that gripped Sherlock. The same feeling that overcame him when John agreed to marry him, the same feeling that he got when John first kissed him, the same feeling he got every time he caught John's looking at him for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
Sherlock loved him so much. It nearly burned him from the inside out to know that John loved him the same.
The night curled around them. The orange glow of the streetlights stretching shadows across their bedroom floor. The stars were hardly visible, but Sherlock knew exactly what ones shone in the sky beyond the layer of light pollution and cloud cover that London always harbored.
It was like catching a glimpse into the future. Long nights spent lying in bed, Sherlock thinking about one thing or another and John slowly reaching sleep.
Sherlock wanted this. John wanted this. They both wanted the other forever.
They would stand together against their families, against the London criminals, against the whole world if necessary.