"I know. I love you too."
The words hung there in the air as if suspended by strings. An intangible marionette that cast a spell over them both. John broke the silence first, using his sleeve to dab at his puffy, red-rimmed eyes.
"Y-you do?"
Sherlock pressed his hand gently to John's cheek, "Obviously." John chuckled and sniffled.
"Perhaps it's not so obvious. You're well aware that I'm not terribly demonstrative of my emotions, John. It's not how I'm built, I'm afraid. But know that I loved you as my best friend and I love you now. I'm completely content to spend the rest of my life exactly here. Now, let's get this soaking wet shirt off of you." Sherlock began unbuttoning.
"I love you." John put his hands on Sherlock's, stopping him from pulling the buttons free.
"I know."
"Ok, Han." John rolled his eyes and grinned. "I just wanted to officially say it."
Sherlock returned the grin as he pushed the shirt back over his shoulders and John pulled his arms out of the sleeves. He tugged his undershirt over his head, balled them both up and tossed them to a corner. He felt for the medallion and held it between his fingers.
"Stay put. I'll go get our bags." Sherlock kissed his forehead. He stood and pulled his coat off, draping it on the back of a chair at an antique desk against the wall. He took one last look at John before he left the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
John lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, pulling the medallion back and forth across the chain. As it moved from one link to the next, it sent a vibration to his throat. His body ached from the stress of the attack. He hated feeling so weak and helpless. He didn't ever want Sherlock to see him like that; so thoroughly vulnerable.
"Sherlock loves you. He loves you. He actually said the words," John thought while his head spun. The soft down of the plush duvet cradled his body and somewhat eased the ache.
Sherlock's mobile moaned from his coat pocket. John pursed his lips together and drummed his fingers on the mattress. The phone moaned again.
"What does she want?" He growled under his breath. He looked to the door, knowing Sherlock could return at any moment and decided not to sneak a look. Sherlock was his, after all. Wasn't he? He rolled to face away from the door, tucking his hands into his armpits.
The door opened and he heard Sherlock dragging his suitcase into the room. John's duffle was over his shoulder and he was carrying a glass of water. "How many times did she text me?"
John laughed. "You heard it from the foyer?"
"No, but thank you for confirming the cause of your body language." Sherlock placed the water on the nightstand.
"Twice. What is it between you two?"
Sherlock pulled his phone from his coat pocket and read the messages. He responded to John without looking up, clearly typing a rapid reply.
"There is nothing whatsoever between The Woman and myself that need concern you."
John sat up and faced Sherlock with his arms crossed. "Somehow that doesn't reassure me, Sherlock. It's a wee bit 'the lady doth protest too much, methinks.'" He felt a jealous flush rise from his stomach to his cheeks, Sherlock watched him turn red.
With an eyeroll worthy of a blue ribbon in sarcasm, Sherlock handed John his mobile "You really are adorable when you're jealous. If you think I'm lying, you can look at my messages any time you want to. I've nothing to hide from you, John Hamish Watson."
Being called adorable momentarily distracted John from his concerns, though he wrinkled up his nose at Sherlock's usage of his detested middle name. Why couldn't his paternal grandfather have been called James rather than a Scottish Gaelic equivalent? Sherlock sat on the bed next to him and rested his head on John's bare shoulder.
"I'm bored."
John chuckled. "That took longer than I expected."
"I was somewhat distracted."
"What would you like to do? Why don't you ask Irene what she's up to?" The second sentence came out slightly more bitter than John had intended. He hid his regret by taking a long sip of water. He felt it cool him down from the inside, but did little to assuage his possessiveness.
"I'm going to go check on my brother. Take all the time you need to convince yourself that I'm not interested in her. Oh, by the way," Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out two small tablets. "You should probably take these."
"What are they?" John asked suspiciously.
"The anti-anxiety medication you think you're hiding from me." He strolled out of the room with his shoulders hunched forward in frustration and pulled the door shut behind him with a slam.
Fucking hell. He thought. We can't even declare our love for each other without a row.
Griping under his breath, John popped the tablets into his mouth and took a sip of water to wash them down. Sherlock taking care of him for a change was beginning to get on his nerves. He had the bedside manner of Hannibal Lecter.
Looking at the phone in his hand, he knew it would be locked. He further knew that this was one of Sherlock's tests. The underlying question was the purpose of such a test. Was Sherlock trying to verify if he was capable of breaking into his phone – or if John was willing to trust him enough not to break in? It could have gone either way, really. He decided to occupy his mind by deciphering the password and then he'd decide if he wanted to read the text history between Sherlock and Irene Adler.
He pushed his back against the headboard and puzzled. He could overlook the most obvious keywords and go straight to the esoteric. The main obstacle there of course was, when it came to obscura Sherlock was the master. It could literally be anything under the sun. The five blank spaces on the screen taunted him. It seemed absurd that a simple five digit code was sufficient to keep his secrets guarded.
He started typing at least eight separate times only to delete the words, changing his mind. Too many attempts would reset the password and lock them both out of the device. It brought to mind the agony of Sherlock's attempt to guess The Woman's phone code. John could almost feel the barrel of the American agent's gun still pressed to his head. He also remembered the frantic sound of panic in Sherlock's voice as he tried to convince the Americans that he didn't know the password. John noted that Sherlock wasn't frantic at all until John's safety was threatened.
In a rush of realization, he remembered that The Woman had given Sherlock her password without him knowing it. He suspected that Sherlock had done the same before leaving the room.
"Ok, Mr. Holmes. The game is on." He said to himself and concentrated. He might not have a Mind Palace, but he had decent recall of conversations. He closed his eyes and thought. What exactly had Sherlock said just before he handed John the phone?
If you think I'm lying, you can look at my messages. Ok, so that was obvious. What was it he'd said just after that?
You're adorable when you're jealous. No, that wasn't it.
I've nothing to hide from you, John Hamish Watson.
His eyes burst open. Could Sherlock's password be his name? He looked back to the five blinking dashes on the screen and frowned. His first name was too short, the second two names were too long. Perhaps he omitted a vowel or added a letter or number? No, that didn't feel right. Somehow though, he just knew he was on the scent.
He tried rearranging the letters of his name into five letter anagrams but nothing struck him. He chewed on his lower lip trying to visualize words he could possibly spell with so many consonants and so few vowels.
As if struck by inspiration, John's jaw dropped and he popped his head up. His hand shook as he typed in the password, knowing before depressing the Enter key that he was right.
OAIAO
The phone obeyed and gave John access. He laughed and shook his head while pumping his fist in victory. Sherlock's password was John's full name, spelt without the consonants. He momentarily thought better of going through the text messages, but temptation simply got the better of him. He rationalized that there was no real invasion since Sherlock had handed him both the phone and the clue to decode the password. Besides that, Sherlock had almost certainly gone through his phone and his laptop, not to mention his bedroom so this was an opportunity for a bit of quid pro quo. He clicked the envelope icon with his forefinger and opened the conversation between Sherlock and The Woman. It was date and time stamped from two weeks prior.
Good Afternoon, Mr. Holmes.
Ms. Adler. – SH
Oh, don't be that way. I didn't mean what I said.
John tried to scroll up but Sherlock had deleted the older messages.
You absolutely meant it. And you were quite right. – SH
I might have meant it a bit. Have you told him yet?
No. – SH
I can't sleep. – SH
My Gran would give me warm milk when I couldn't sleep.
My Gran gave me gin and warm water with lemon. – SH
That explains so much about you.
That was the end of that chat. The next messages were from a few days ago. John realized they were from the night he'd last gone out with Julia.
Irene. – SH
Oh, you're speaking to me? To what do I owe the honor?
He's wearing it again. – SH
The blue shirt or the cologne?
Both actually. Date night with that slag. God I hate her. She's so fucking pedestrian. – SH
Don't be rude.
I think I'm going to die. – SH
You're not dying, Sherlock. Tell him how you feel.
You and my landlady would get on very well. – SH
She sounds entirely brilliant and desperately beautiful. I'm exhausted. I just got done doing some very naughty things to the French Ambassador's chauffer. Want any tips?
It seemed that Sherlock didn't take the bait. The next messages were from later that same night, time stamped only a few minutes apart.
ADLER. – SH
The slag is gone and he threw his shirt at me. What does this mean? – SH
I need context. – SH
It smells of him. –SH
I'm slowly going mad. – SH
She didn't respond and several hours passed.
What do I do? – SH
I can't sleep. - SH
I think I may be having an aneurysm. – SH
Fine. Ignore me. I'll just lay on my bed and stare into the abyss. – SH
Finally, it appeared that she responded just before three in the morning.
Jesus Christ. Just fucking kiss him Sherlock. I'm a very busy woman.
I can't. What if he punches me? – SH
If he does hit you, he'll purposely miss your nose and teeth again, no doubt.
There was a lull in the conversation.
Sherlock?
Oui? – SH
I can read men the way you can read crime scenes. Trust me on this one thing. Go talk to him.
Sherlock hadn't responded. The next messages were from that morning, around the time John was in the shower and while they waited in front of Speedy's for Mycroft to arrive.
Checking in, Mr. Holmes.
Sherlock replied with a winky face emoji.
I was right, wasn't I?
Don't get a big head about it, but yes you were. – SH
HOW WAS IT?
Splendid. Superlative. Sans pareil. Sticky. –SH
Sounds about right.
The last exchange from that evening, just before Sherlock came into the room with their luggage made John's heart stop.
I'm happy for you. He is very good looking and he walks like he's got something impressive in his pants.
Come to think of it, if you ever fancy a ménage à trois…
I don't share well. Especially not John. Hands off him. – SH
So there was the truth. Sherlock was talking regularly to Irene Adler but their conversations centered on him. He felt like a stupid, envious twat. He closed out of the message screen and slipped the mobile back into Sherlock's coat pocket. He caught sight of himself in the mirror over the desk. The whites of his eyes were tear-stained pink and the bags under his lower lids were distended. He grimaced at the sight of himself, what did someone as incredible as Sherlock see in him?
Sherlock re-entered the room and nearly hit John with the door.
"Sorted?" he asked.
John lowered his eyes, sheepish. "Yes," he replied quietly.
"Wonderful. Get a shirt on. We're going for a walk."
"Eh?" But Sherlock had already left the room, the soles of his shoes were scuffing across the parquet floor. John hurried to grab a shirt from his bag and buttoned it as he followed the sound of footsteps.
Sherlock was taking long strides out the front door; John double-timed to catch him up.
"Where are we walking?"
"Not far." Sherlock replied and pointed out in front of them. It was just light enough for John to see moonlight reflecting in the ripples of the water in the goldfish pond. Sherlock sat down on the stone bench where his mother had been reading when they arrived. Her book was still on the seat, John picked it up as he sat next to Sherlock. The bench felt very cold on his arse and his lower back.
"So, what does a brilliant mathematician like Marceline Holmes read for fun?" John asked squinting at the cover of the paperback book.
"Harry Potter and the – Really? Erm. Interesting choice," he said sounding dubious.
"Haven't you read them?" Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest.
"Well, no. They're for kids, aren't they?"
Sherlock shot him a scathing glance. "You think a book series written about the battle between good and evil, racism, classism, sexism, xenophobia, and the AIDS epidemic; with a villain who is willing to kill anyone who gets in his way including a one year old toddler is written exclusively for children?"
"I suppose not…I don't really know that much about it to be honest."
Sherlock tsked at him. "Philistine. That is something we are going to change when we get home."
"Whatever you say." John slipped his hand into Sherlock's and their fingers easily interlaced. Sherlock stroked John's thumb with his own.
"It's really nice here. Quiet."
"I hate quiet."
"It was a nice place to be young though, wasn't it?"
"I suppose it would have been but I was never young."
"Well you're a fucking ray of sunshine tonight aren't you?" John teased, squeezing Sherlock's hand.
"Come on, Sherlock. I've no doubt that you were running around this garden as a boy with a wooden sword and a pirate hat. No doubt at all."
"I'd have preferred being in a tent watching the stars with you."
John looked up at him. "That was an uncharacteristically romantic thing to say."
"I know. I surprise even myself sometimes."
They turned toward each other and their lips met. A delicious breeze surrounded them as their kiss became more fervent. John wound his fingers in Sherlock's hair, tugging gently. Their tongues massaged each other. When the sudden intense sounds of wings flapping startled John, he pulled away.
"What the –"
The sounds got louder and were joined by high-pitched squeals that sent shivers through John's spine. He looked up at the night sky in the direction of the unnerving chorus of other-worldly sounds and recoiled. There were at least twenty-five bats swirling around the largest tree in the garden. The actual number may have been much higher but the creatures were rocketing around the tree in and out of the cover of leaves and he lost count. John grabbed at Sherlock's shirt and huddled into his chest in horror for a moment before he realized that Sherlock was watching them diligently, reverently. His eyes darted around, as if he were trying to look at each individual creature independently of the others.
"Aren't they amazing?"
"They're bloody terrifying…"
"Nonsense. They're harmless. They devour mosquitoes and other pests and they help pollinate the flower beds. They're very misunderstood creatures. I built bat houses as a child and my father mounted them in this tree. I enjoy watching them whenever I'm visiting here."
"You built things? With a hammer?" John asked.
"Is that so hard to believe?"
"A bit, yeah."
Sherlock scoffed and stood up, taking John by the hand and pulling him towards the garage.
"Let's take a look at Rory's car." Sherlock walked directly over to the red Porsche 911 Carrera belonging to his cousin. John kept a wary, watchful eye on the bat colony over his shoulder. When there was more of a comfortable distance between himself and them he relaxed and turned back to Sherlock, who slowed his pace as they approached the vehicle.
"Jesus. How does a 21 year old kid come to own a piece of machinery like this? I saw this model on Top Gear – it's unbefuckinglievably expensive."
Sherlock shrugged and simply said, "Rich."
John frowned, his own first car was a miserable blue-and-rust coloured shitbox Toyota with ripped seats and an unreliable tape deck. If you rolled the passenger side window down more than halfway, the door would swing open, even if the car was in motion. More than one of his mates from uni nearly tumbled out of the car on the motorway.
"Must be nice." There was a biting sense of resentment in his tone.
Sherlock looked nonplussed, opened the driver's side door and slid inside. John thought it was really odd that the car would be unlocked.
"Get in, loser. We're going for a drive." He held up the keys and waved them in the window for John to see. John cocked his head with slightly wide eyes. He opened the door and leaned in.
"Where did you get the keys?" The intoxicating scent of new leather filled his nostrils. The all black interior was pristine.
"Nicked them from the room Rory has been using." Sherlock slid the key into the ignition and started the car. It purred to life and Sherlock revved the engine.
"We can't…"
"I'm going to go, you should probably join me."
John pursed his lips together but catching sight of the mischievous expression on Sherlock's face made him bold. He slid silently into the car and closed the door.
"Now, not too – "
Sherlock put the car into gear and hit the accelerator hard. The engine roared and John was pushed back into his seat. He grasped for his seat belt and secured it. A cloud of dust rose up around them as Sherlock peeled down the driveway and into the street.
"Where are we going?" John asked while bracing himself on the dash.
"I've no idea." John knew he was lying straightaway.
Sherlock put his window all the way down and rested his elbow on the door. Cool air rushed in and whipped through his curls. John laughed, thinking it looked like he was being taken away by a tornado. He put his own window down and mirrored Sherlock's pose.
They were able to maintain a top speed of 120 kilometers per hour on the straight, quiet road. The older residents of the area were all in bed like Sherlock's parents. There was a feeling of them being the only two people alive as the sped along and John found it thoroughly exhilarating.
He looked over at Sherlock, admiring his profile. He was focused intensely on the way ahead of them, making a few careful turns. As the street lights were few and far between, John began to get slightly nervous.
"Sherlock, d'ya think you could possibly slow down just a little? It's dark – I can't see fuck all…"
"This car only goes fast and faster, John. What are you afraid of?" There were fewer lights along the section of road they were approaching and John was getting more anxious. Sherlock pressed the accelerator closer to the floor and they hit 130 kph.
"I'm not afraid – this is brilliant. I'm only thinking…"
"That was your first mistake."
"Oh shut up." John saw two sets of oncoming headlights and grabbed at Sherlock's leg, gripping the fabric of his trousers.
"I'm slightly disappointed, actually." Sherlock switched hands on the steering wheel. John heard Sherlock's seatbelt click open and felt him rest his free hand on John's thigh.
"Why? Oi! Watch the road!"
"Rory had the money to buy this car and he went with a damned automatic transmission. Very disappointing. And he chose this dreadful red." Sherlock's hand crept up John's leg until he was massaging his palm into John's groin.
"Sherlock –" A scolding tone took over his voice as he noticed the street was no longer lit at all and they were hurtling into pitch blackness. It was difficult to focus on any unseen, lurking dangers on the dark road because all of the blood in his body seemed to be rushing toward his crotch.
"Red is such a grossly ostentatious colour in a car, isn't it?" As he spoke, he pulled John's zip open and slid his fingertips inside.
"Sherlock –" He made a left turn and there was rumbling under the tires, indicating to John that they'd left pavement and were on a dirt road. Sherlock was gently stroking John to hardness, having no reaction whatsoever to any of the outside stimuli beyond the wind whirling madly through his hair.
"Sod it." Sherlock yanked his hand out of John's jeans, shifted into neutral and pulled hard on the emergency hand brake. Although they were undoubtedly travelling stupidly fast, it felt like slow motion to John as the car began to spin. His stomach lurched and his head nearly hit his window; his heart pounding frantically.
Inertia pinned him in place firmly against the door. Sherlock turned the wheel hard to the right and self-corrected, crying out a loud, excited whoop. John heard the sound of hundreds of small rocks hitting against the underside of the car and the doors as he braced himself again. The back end of the car came quickly around and they stopped abruptly; facing 180 degrees from the direction they'd been heading.
John was panting and his blood raced from his heart to his limbs and back again at what felt like three times the normal rate, leaving him slightly lightheaded and euphoric. Sherlock was smirking but showed no outward signs of an adrenaline rush before he pounced across the center console of the car and crushed his lips into John's.
John kissed him back moaning hungrily, tearing at his shirt and digging his fingers into his skin. A button went flying and clinked off the radio screen. Bemoaning the lack of enough space to move in the car, Sherlock kneeled up on the driver's seat and clicked John's seat belt open.
"I'm sorry…I'm sorry… I'm so stupid…I'm sorry…" John's moaning turned into a soft whine in between wet, raw kisses. Sherlock took John's lower lip between his teeth and bit down enough to make him yelp.
Sherlock pushed his hand back into John's jeans and was stroking him again with his left hand. His right hand fumbled for the switch on the outside of the passenger seat cushion to recline the seat back. As the back of his seat started to recline, John ached for more contact. He reached for his belt and unbuckled it, and made quick work of the button of his jeans.
Having a nominal amount of extra room to move, Sherlock pulled John's cock free of his pants and caressed him aggressively.
"I'm a jealous idiot…I'm sorry…" John moaned into Sherlock's mouth and gripped the back of his neck, making sure Sherlock couldn't deprive him of the taste of his tongue.
"Don't apologize. Just cum." It was by far the easiest command John had ever been given. He arched his neck back and tensed his thighs and abdomen, preparing to delay his orgasm for as long as humanly possible.
"Yes sir…" He winked.
The next thing John knew, his cock was buried deep in Sherlock's mouth. He felt it hit the back of his throat and he took a fistful of curls in one hand. He gripped the headrest with the other. Sherlock licked and sucked on him with increasing intensity, humming a low pitched tone. The lustful vibrations against his skin sent John reeling.
"So much for Danielle fucking Rosario…" John thought, while is brain was still capable of cohesive thoughts.
He felt the smallest bit of pressure of Sherlock's teeth graze his skin, evoking a guttural moan and the hiss of air escaping his throat. John watched his head bobbing up and down, the curls waving wildly. When his jaw began to tire, he wrapped his long fingers around John and stroked hard and fast. They made direct eye contact but John was incapable of speech. His words all morphed into the same completely inarticulate groaning.
John pushed Sherlock's head back downward with a flat palm between his shoulder blades. With a loud grunt and a thrust of his hips, John's cum filled Sherlock's mouth.
"Fucking hell…" John panted as Sherlock sat back up in the driver's seat, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
"I agree." Sherlock relaxed against the leather seat.
John turned toward Sherlock as his heart rate slowing slightly. His cheeks were pink from the adrenaline rush. "What am I going to do with you?"
Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. "I am sure you'll come up with something."
In truth, John was very much considering bending Sherlock over the bonnet when he started chuckling to himself.
"What's so amusing?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him.
"Well, to be honest; by 42 I'd assumed that a blow job in a Porsche from a leggy brunette was a fantasy I'd have to let go of."
A wide grin spread across Sherlock's face and he leaned in to kiss him. John tasted traces of himself on Sherlock's lips.
"Follow me." Sherlock said simply before getting out of the car without a backward glance.
John tucked himself back into his jeans and did up his flies. He popped the door open and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the complete absence of light except for the moon. He felt hard packed dirt under the soles of his shoes that switched to soft, cushy grass as he followed behind Sherlock. When he finally caught up to him, they walked for a few minutes in silence, hand in hand. The grass got higher, giving John the impression that they were in an abandoned field or unkempt pasture.
Sherlock paused and looked up to night sky and turned to his left.
"There it is." John couldn't tell if he was speaking to himself or not. He followed him to a single tree in the field that looked like it was twisted and gnarled by arthritis. Its trunk and branches bent at painfully unnatural looking angles and it was nearly barren of leaves. Sherlock ran his fingertips along the rough bark. He came to a dip in a branch that was about the height of his waist. He pushed down on it with his palms, testing its durability and with ease hoisted himself up to sit on it.
John approached and placed his palm on Sherlock's knee.
"There's room for one more." Sherlock said.
John mimicked Sherlock's movements and was quickly sitting next to him on the branch. It was thin but surprisingly sturdy.
"I've never brought anyone here before." He looked off into the distance. John noted they were up on a hill that overlooked the village below. A few lights burned in windows, aside from a few intermittent barks, it was silent as the grave.
"I thought you hated quiet."
"My mind wasn't quiet when I started coming here. I'd run all the way from the house to stave off a panic attack from being overloaded with thoughts; or after a particularly bad row with my brother. This is where I started constructing my Mind Palace. I'd sit here for hours and file things away, including my emotions. I didn't want Mycroft or any of the children who mocked me to be able to get the better of me."
"I would have kicked them all in the face for you." John said as he bopped Sherlock on the nose with his finger.
"You know, I believe you would have."
"Without question."
"I've wanted to take you here for a long time."
John smiled and took his hand. "I'm glad you did. You're not alone anymore, Sherlock and you never will be again."
They shared a soft, simple kiss and watched the thin clouds move slowly across the night sky for what felt like hours. Sherlock started yawning first and John caught on.
"Let's get back and get to bed." He jumped down and offered his open hands to Sherlock to help steady him. They strolled quietly back to the car and John slid into the driver's seat. Sherlock passed him the keys and he started the car.
He had been feeling sleepy until his seat vibrated with the power of the 309 kW engine. They followed the same route back to the main road, leaving the dirt and gravel behind and were once again on tarmac.
Sherlock rested his head against the cool glass of the window with his eyes closed as John drove at a reasonably fast speed. He switched on the radio and smiled to hear the song playing.
I packed my bags last night, pre-flight…
He sped up a bit and was mouthing the words to the song. From the corner of his eye he saw that Sherlock was awake and also mouthing along.
Sherlock felt John watching him and raised the volume of his voice first.
And I'm gonna be hiiiiiiigh as a kite by then.
John joined in singing along softly enough to still hear the radio and each other until the chorus. John cranked the volume of the radio and they mutually began belting out the song at the top of their lungs while John got the car up to 125 kph.
And I think it's gonna be a long, long time
Til touchdown brings me round again to find
I'm not the man they think I am at home
Oh, no no no! I'm a rocket man.
Rocket man burning out his fuse out here alone…
They sang the song together to its completion and were soon pulling back into the driveway at his parents' house. John turned the key in the ignition and handed Sherlock the keys with a kiss.
"Take me to bed, Dr. Watson." Sherlock said sleepily.
"With pleasure, Mr. Holmes."