CHAPTER 6
About a month passed.
John had only visited a few times, and the scarcity of those visits really irked Sherlock.
But perhaps that was due to his quickly growing levels of impatience.
A month without a case and a month without John were two factors that were enough to practically drive the Consulting Detective to insanity.
He needed something to happen. Anything.
That's why his heart leapt when his phone sounded through the room. He crossed his fingers, hoping desperately that it wasn't his phone company blabbering about the percentage of data he'd used up. He could hardly withhold his grin when he saw John's name on his screen, the message beneath it saying,
'Mind coming over for a bit?'
Without hesitation, Sherlock ran over to the coatrack and pulled on his coat and scarf, dashing out the door.
Perhaps the time is now, Sherlock thought as he signaled a cab.
Don't doubt yourself. The time is now. It's perfect, in fact.
Sherlock looked out the window of the cab, getting incrementally more and more excited as he watched numerous buildings passed him by.
As soon as the cab stopped, Sherlock wasted no time in handing the cabbie a few notes and hopping out.
Brushing himself off, he looked up at the building complex before him, smiling as he made his way up to the door. He pressed the button with John's last name etched clearly on the small slip of white paper and waited eagerly for a response.
"Sherlock?" was the first thing Sherlock heard a voice say.
"Yes, John, hello," Sherlock said into the speaker. "You texted me?"
"Yeah, um, let me buzz you in," John said, urgency in his tone.
Sherlock couldn't help but be slightly concerned at the hushed tone John was using when he spoke, so when the door unlocked, Sherlock hurriedly made his way inside and up the stairs to John's flat. When he knocked on the door and it creaked open, he stepped carefully inside.
"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked as he stepped through.
He rolled his eyes when he saw who was sitting on John's sitting room couch.
"Mycroft, what the hell are you doing here?" Sherlock asked as he sighed an exasperated sigh.
The corner of Mycroft's lips turned upward as he stood up with his signature umbrella, striding over to the younger Holmes.
"Well, you weren't answering my calls."
Sherlock gritted his teeth, as Mycroft's nose came not ten inches from where the tip of his own was residing.
"I don't answer phone calls, Mycroft. Especially yours. I don't like talking in such a manner."
"That much is obvious," Mycroft smirked.
John peeped through the space in between the Holmes brothers.
"Um, yeah, what are you doing here, Mycroft, now that you're finally talking?" John asked, annoyance obvious in his tone.
"Well, Dr. Watson, because of my little brother's reluctance to communicate with me, I was forced to connect with his closest companion. That happens to be you."
John rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, I gathered that much. Why do you need to talk to Sherlock?"
Mycroft turned to face the good doctor.
"I presume you are aware of the inappropriately named 'Moriarty Fiasco', correct?"
John nodded impatiently.
"Yeah, 'course I am. That's the whole reason Sherlock's even allowed to stay in the country. What about it?"
Mycroft backed up a bit so that his view could focus on the two friends.
"It seems my dear brother has forgotten about it."
Sherlock sighed.
"I would not forget such a dramatic event. There was a family crisis which impeded my ability to investigate the odd phenomenon."
"Brother dear, the Watsons are not your family, therefore, the crisis had no reason to interfere with your work," Mycroft sneered.
Sherlock growled like a rabid dog.
"John is my friend. I'd like to think that's synonymous with a blood relationship. Therefore, when his life was put on hold, so was mine. I share his distress when it becomes so personal it starts eating away at his psyche, because I don't enjoy watching him suffer. When he suffers, I suffer. And due to the death of his wife, we've both been suffering quite a bit. I would certainly call that a crisis."
Mycroft sighed.
"I've said it before, Sherlock, and I'll say it again: Caring is not an advantage."
Sherlock had had about enough of the elder Holmes and grabbed him by the shirt collar.
"It is to me!" he yelled in Mycroft's ear as he flung the man out the door, slamming it behind him.
A vast amount of knocking, unsurprisingly, followed the brief act of violence and a lot of:
"Sherlock Holmes, open this door!", "Mummy would be very cross with you if she saw the way you are behaving at this moment!", "The whole of London needs you, and you're going to let a doctor stop all matters of urgency?!"
Sherlock and John stood in silence as this persisted. Once it stopped and they heard angry sounding footsteps ascending the stairs to the lobby, they both let out a sigh.
"Well that was tedious," Sherlock said, accompanied with a grin.
John snickered.
"You think so? My God, if I had known the Queen was dropping by, I would've straightened up around here."
The two burst out into a fit of laughter like schoolchildren, reveling in the victory of booting out Mycroft Holmes.
"Shh, shh, all right. We'll wake Charlotte," John said, stifling another giggle.
Sherlock sighed.
"Oh, bother."
"Need a drink?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"Don't you have work, or something?"
John shrugged.
"Sarah won't let me back at the hospital just yet. She insists I'm still grieving."
"Aren't you?"
John's shoulders went slack at this.
"I suppose I ought to be, huh? I mean, she was my wife."
Sherlock nodded.
"Indeed, she was."
John cleared his throat after an awkward moment of silence.
"I need a drink. I'll be right back."
Sherlock made himself comfortable on the futon, listening to the clinking of glass in the poor excuse for a kitchen that John used on a day-to-day basis.
Do I tell him now? He wondered. How do I tell him? Should I? Maybe I shouldn't…
"Sorry about that," John said, coming into the sitting room and seating himself in a small chair angled in the direction of the futon. "Nothing against you, Sherlock. Just want to look at you when I talk to you."
Sherlock nodded, grimacing at the full glass in John's hand.
"Is that…?"
"Wine? Yes, it is," John smiled. "Red wine, in fact. Tends to be my 'go-to' drink if I'm feeling really antsy. Numbs me, if you will."
With this, John took a long drink from his glass, smacking his lips when he had finished.
"Damn, this is good! You sure you don't want some?"
Sherlock stared long and hard at John.
He took a deep breath.
"John…" he started.
John stopped him.
"Before you start, Sherlock, I just… can I just say that that was really..." he took a moment to ponder what to say. "That really meant a lot to me. What you said to Mycroft, just then. I just… I want you to realize that our friendship means just as much to me as it apparently does you, and… well, I'm glad you care. I care. For God's sake, I cared about you the first day we met. It's validating to know that you give a shit." John chuckled. "You know, Sherlock; you are the best man I have ever met. You really are. And it's an honor to know you and be such a big part of your life. I really don't think you could possibly know how much you mean to me. Even if I tried putting it into words, my affection."
Sherlock smiled.
"I can try wording mine."
He inhaled deeply.
"I do believe I love you, John Watson."
John froze in his chair, as Sherlock did on the couch, only the sound of cars passing by outside making itself known to the two.
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.
"I realize John that my timing wasn't impeccable. I admit that was rather rude to-"
Before Sherlock could say anything more, John had sprung out of his chair, wine glass shattering as it hit the floor, and clutched the back of Sherlock's head, leaning forward while simultaneously pulling Sherlock to him so that their lips met, pink interwoven in pink, the softness melding together as one. Sherlock's eyes grew wide, shocked at the sudden amount of force directed fully at his lips which were only ever used to articulate his speech, having had exercise shaping numerous o's and ah's and every other phonetic known to man. Now that his lips were doing this, well… well, nothing. It was as if they were used to kissing another human being's lips so passionately.
Was this passion? Sherlock could never be sure.
As the two men allowed air to pass between them to breathe, Sherlock began to question the events that were currently and, quite abruptly, occurring, but was only answered with a curt, "Shut up" from John. And they kissed again, Sherlock this time allowing it to happen, wrapping his arms around John's back and bringing his hand up to the nape of his neck, pulling the good doctor down onto the futon with him, whilst pulling him in closer, not wanting to lose the compactness of the moment.
John pulled away again.
"You know, Sherlock, we can't do much else. Charlotte's in the next room. And I'd rather she not be traumatized by the sound of two men shagging in the sitting room."
Sherlock nodded quickly, not wanting the moment to be over so soon.
"Obviously. But what's stopping us from simply kissing?"
John chuckled.
"Nothing at all."
And the two, once again, locked lips, this time, relishing the fact that they were doing so.
Love filled the foggy air of London that afternoon. It was not to be forgotten so soon.