~~/~~
John stared out at where Peter Ricolleti was getting escorted out of his front door, trying to figure out how, exactly, he was going to get into Sherlock's bed – or Sherlock into his – again without it being awkward. Sherlock stood beside him, content and proud after a cleanly wrapped up, two year old impossible case, his hands shoved into the high pockets of his coat, apparently content to watch his prey taken away in cuffs.
John tried to focus on the battered woman currently crying as the schmuck was taken off her front porch in cuffs, trying to think about the good they were doing her rather than how glad he was the case was done so he could drag the consulting detective under the sheets again. So far it was a helpless case; he noticed Sherlock's breathing.
"Christ, I hate domestics," Lestrade cursed, coming to stand beside them away from the flashing police lights.
"-He -say -Jesus -I -hate -A-B-U-S-E -case," John translated.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, his eyes flickering down to look at the inspector. Lestrade blinked back and glanced at John.
"That really ought to be obvious," he said. Sherlock peered at him.
"-That -should -obvious," John translated.
"Why? You work homicide, why would it be better if she were dead?" Sherlock asked, glancing between the Inspector and the woman on the porch as if trying to sense if there were some alternative relationship between them.
"Christ, Sherlock, why are you so-" Lestrade started.
"Psychotic?" Donovan filled in, striding up to them. "It's in his nature." Lestrade glanced at them, looking apologetic for drawing his partner over.
"-She -say -P-S-Y-C-H-O-T-I-C, -sorry, -Christ, -that word -long. -She -need -find -more -short -insult," John translated before switching his attention to the female detective. "Do you usually insult psychopaths or do you just trust this one?"
Donovan blinked at him and scoffed.
"I probably shouldn't take that to mean you've come to your senses about him," she said, shaking her head.
Not in the way you mean.
"No," John answered simply, shaking his head at her slowly as if she were daft.
Donovan sneered at him and glanced at Lestrade.
"Are we going to have a press conference on this one?" she asked him.
"-What -say -you?" Sherlock asked, turning toward John. John shrugged slightly.
"-I ask her -if -she -insult -all -people -she -think -P-S-Y-C-H-O-T-I-C, -only -you, -which?"
Sherlock smirked.
"Dinner?" he asked and John nodded. It'd be a relief to just get off his feet. "Chinese or Italian, there's both close by," Sherlock added.
"-Chinese," John requested and Sherlock smiled slightly at his knowing the sign. Sherlock nodded and started off and John waited long enough to nod at Lestrade who was halfway through a sentence with Donovan. Lestrade nodded back and John started for the genius waiting for him to catch up.
They walked in an easy silence and John followed Sherlock's lead, spending his time glancing up at the stars whenever he could. The night was incredibly clear and the sky was visible despite the London smog.
"-Enjoy -sight -stars -you -say. -Not learn -about -them -why not?" he asked. Sherlock let his head fall back a moment as he walked, looking up at the sky.
"I'm not curious about everything, John. If I'm interested in something, I'll research it. That's hardly different, is it?" Sherlock asked, furrowing his eyebrows.
"-No," John agreed.
The silence began to feel stilted as they approached the door to the Chinese restaurant and John glanced over at Sherlock, unsure what to say.
This feels like a date, he thought as they walked together. Sherlock glanced at him, looking curious, before pulling open the restaurant door. John walked inside and Sherlock followed him.
"Table for two?" the waitress asked and John nodded, wishing they were in Angelos being accosted by the owner and a crowd. Here it was almost empty but for a businessman and his wife. They were brought to a table large enough for four and John sat down facing the door and tried not to grimace at the lit candle between them. They stayed silent, glancing over their menus until John put his aside, wondering why this was rapidly turning into a very bad date. He felt like he was supposed to lean across the table and ask where Sherlock was from. John blinked, suddenly remembering something.
"-You -rich; -Money -from -banker – you -not accept -why? -You -not -need," John started. Sherlock was looking at him with that 'That wasn't obvious?" somewhat sickened expression that always drove him spare. "-Year -past -you -need -flat -friend -why?" he asked. Sherlock's face cleared in understanding – a 'reasonable' question, then.
"Crime. You're 90% less likely to be robbed while in the flat. Between a common worker's schedule and mine my experiments would have been protected 99% of the time and our schedules would interact so infrequently as to be of little importance. A doctor's schedule was not ideal but not overly so and was more than made up for by the chance of available medical care," Sherlock replied.
Romantic, John thought, sitting back in his booth. Still, it was about what he expected. The silence stretched out again and the waitress came up to them to lay a couple menus before them.
"Hello, my name is Miranda and I'll be serving you today. Can I start you off with something to drink?" she asked and John wanted to bless her for the interruption.
"Just water, please," he answered and she apparently took that as answer for both of them as she smiled quickly and dashed away faster than was strictly polite.
"We've had sex, or something fairly close to it. That is the only remarkable change in this relationship. Does that change something?" Sherlock asked. John blinked at the genius, trying to catch up. Fortunately the man was quiet enough that the businessman did not turn and stare at them. "Should I be opening more doors now?" Sherlock asked.
John felt himself blink rapidly again and glanced at his menu, though he already knew he was having the chicken fried rice. He had a feeling Sherlock had just asked him if this was a date. He honestly...didn't really know what that would mean. John kept quiet, preferring to think.
They already lived together. They already ate together. He wasn't going to sleep with anyone else – just the thought felt revolting and he had a nagging idea it would destroy the man in front of him. He didn't know if he was going to wake up beside the man or not – likely not, Sherlock barely ever slept and when he did it was on the couch. They were just living that rather large bit more together. John glanced up and Sherlock was peering at him, apparently inspecting his face for clues. John sighed and closed his menu.
"-D-A-T-E -mean -try -something -new. -See -if -two -people -who -don't know -eachother, -live -together -can? -We -live -together -now," John answered and Sherlock's face cleared.
"So we can skip that part?" he confirmed and John nodded, taking a sip of his water.
"-Thank -god, -yes," he answered and Sherlock smiled at him.
"Good. They looked dull. I'd much prefer to be two people who go out and have fun together," Sherlock replied. It sounded like a quote from something but John couldn't place it. Sherlock rolled his eyes at him and sat back but there was a lightness in his expression that told John he wasn't actually annoyed and John relaxed, comfortable in the silence again.
"That rag you cleaned your hands on earlier had bits of owl intestine on it," Sherlock stated suddenly and John nodded to himself and got up to go wash his hands. Sherlock grinned, looking amused.
~~/~~
The awkward silence returned as they approached 221B. Sherlock kept an eye on John as they walked toward the building, aware that this was another zone where the rules could have changed. He needed to know, needed data, but all John did was stand there and wait for him to unlock the door, quiet and unflappable as always. There was a slight deepening in the wrinkles around John's mouth and forehead – an indication that he was bothered but not much of one.
Sherlock opened the door and walked inside before John because he almost always entered that way and John would have seen the difference if he'd held the door instead – would he really? The man was unobservant – and John had not answered his question about doors.
This is horrible. And he'd asked for this change. What had he been thinking? He hated change in his home. Sherlock led the way up the stairs, wishing he could continue watching the man though he knew John never gave him any clues. Sherlock stood inside the flat and John walked in past him, throwing his coat over his desk chair the way he always did. The flat looked utterly unchanged and the silence was horrible.
Am I supposed to be sexual now? I don't want to be. Couples commonly lived together as casual flatmates for much of their lives; that was evident, but he didn't know how. He didn't even know where to put his hands.
"I need rules, John," Sherlock growled. John looked up from where he was opening the electric bill left on his desk.
"Sorry?" he asked though surely he could figure it out on his own – how many other classifications of rules could he possibly want? Rules were limiting.
Sherlock threw himself down on the couch to scowl at the ceiling. It seemed like a perfectly good excuse not to have to look at the man.
"Rules. Which have changed? Are my bacteria-injected eggs unacceptable now? Does my violin, the days without talking bother you now? Do I have to touch you all the time? How often? Am I allowed to demand you move to my bed or do we continue to sleep separate despite the corresponding heat benefits – usually that only requires a sexual relationship and that has been fulfilled," Sherlock reasoned before tilting his head to glance at his partner. John's frown had dissipated – pleased or amused, apparently. About what? Too many options.
"-Rules -same," John answered. "-Your -bed, -I -not -sleep -with -owl -there."
Sherlock felt a smirk quirk at his lips at the idea before he started toward his laptop. He watched John's reaction carefully. This was horrible – he didn't like asking permission for something entirely reasonable. John nodded easily, not mocking, not seeming to notice the oddity of it all. Sherlock crossed to his computer and sat down, feeling relief course through his body. This was good. John waved his hands slightly and Sherlock looked up.
"-Wait, -if -I -say, -you -stop -all -that?" John asked.
Rather showed your hand there, Sherlock.
Sherlock grimaced and a smile twitched on John's face, before slowly blooming into a full out smile. John didn't make those often and Sherlock smiled back lightly before turning to concentrate on his work.
~~/~~
John leaned against the bedroom wall while he watched Sherlock meticulously move the sprawled-out owl skeleton onto a tray and off his mattress. Pleasantly enough, Sherlock didn't need to be told that he also needed to change the sheets and John left him to it, moving to sit down at the kitchen table and pretend to read the paper. Sherlock would have given up his violin for him? His days without talking – meaning he'd have found something benign to say and actually said it? John wasn't sure he believed it, but the idea that Sherlock had considered it was enough.
This might be wonderful.
John forced himself to actually read the classifieds, thinking it would probably be best for Sherlock to have another case to get him through the social awkwardness bit of this change. A small case though; something unworthy of the paper at all, preferably. He didn't like fame, to say the least; the last thing he needed was an exposé on his medical and service record and it was clearly coming to that.
People were beginning to recognize him in the street without Sherlock by his side.
Sherlock came out of the bedroom and crouched before the cabinet behind the kitchen table they'd turned into a linen closet. He dug out a new set of deep purple sheets and stalked toward his room, glaring at the bit of cloth like he could scare it into setting itself as he acted with most chores. John returned to the paper; it was a difficult mix to find – a crime simple enough to avoid the news and hard enough to interest a genius. There was nothing today but a few common muggings and a lost cat. If nothing else, he didn't want to deal with them.
Eventually John looked up to see Sherlock hovering in the doorway to his bedroom, looking utterly uncomfortable. He was clasping and unclasping his hands and snarling silently to himself, looking like a dog about to break lose from his chain. John sent back to the paper, figuring Sherlock would figure it out on his own.
"John, how do people do this?" Sherlock snarled finally, sounding disgusted by the very idea. John put down the paper.
"-Fuck -or -ask for it?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.
Oh hell, the question better not be why they want – he thought but Sherlock scoffed at him nastily. He'd have started ranting about the uselessness of emotions if he'd been found without one. So the man was sexual – thank god. He was just utterly, utterly out of his element.
"-Sit," John ordered, getting up from his chair. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.
"How would that help?" he asked, but he obeyed and took John's place.
John walked over to the doorway to Sherlock's bedroom and turned around, doing his best to put himself where Sherlock had been hovering. He nodded firmly and Sherlock nodded back – apparently understanding the show-not-tell session. John strode over to where Sherlock was staring at him and pushed his hands into Sherlock's hair, tipping the man's head back. He kissed him lightly before pushing himself more firmly against the man. Sherlock's mouth opened. This, at least, the man clearly knew how to do.
Holy shit, he was allowed to kiss Sherlock Holmes. John grinned against Sherlock's lips and moved to kiss him again, pushing until Sherlock shifted in his chair to face him better. John let his hands slide down Sherlock's chest, pushing against the hard muscle there. Christ, sex with a man was so different. He preferred it in almost every sense; the heat, the smell, the muscle, every way except for the career consequences in the British Army. He'd never been so grateful to be out of the service in his life. Sherlock pushed against his hands, moving to stand up as he wrapped his hands around John's waist.
"My bedroom, now," he ordered and John smiled again.
I would have you, right here, until you begged for mercy twice. God, he could say that to this man. I've never begged for mercy in my life, Sherlock had responded. That sounded like a challenge to him, John thought, allowing Sherlock to push him backward toward the bedroom.
~~/~~
John walked into Scotland Yard and headed past the secretary's desk to the lifts. The woman nodded at them, long past needing ID and John stepped past a few exiting cops to nab their lift.
"Alright, John?" one of the cops called out and John lifted a hand in greeting.
"Alright," he answered, pressing the button for the second floor for the criminal investigation
department. Sherlock stepped inside after him, apparently unbothered.
"-That -not bother -you?" he asked. Sherlock blinked at him.
"Sorry, what?" he asked.
"-He -not say -you -hello -also," John replied. Sherlock shook his head, looking lost.
"Why would I care?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused. John nodded, accepting it. "I don't know him," Sherlock added, gesturing at the closing lift door. "Neither do you; why would you want him to greet you?"
John shrugged slightly.
"-Bit -friendly," he answered.
"I don't want to be his friend," Sherlock replied, still sounding confused. John shook his head.
"-That -my -answer. -No, -not bother -you," John replied.
The lift doors opened and John walked out onto the main floor of Scotland Yard. There were officer's desks at the center and sides of the room, leaving a hallway to the conference room on the right and Lestrade's office at the back. John moved for the conference room, knowing it'd be set up with tables for the press conference as it always was. The conference room had a large glass door which allowed John to know a good dozen press members were waiting for him before he entered.
Fortunately, the press kept their calm and professional masks on when standing in the middle of Scotland Yard in front of a detective inspector. John entered the room easily and the press didn't bother taking photos, apparently knowing they'd have their chance during the brief press release. The conference room was a large room with light green walls and a white wood paneling. John walked to the back where Lestrade was waiting by the podium.
"Thank you for showing up," Greg said, shaking his hand and the cameras flashed. "And thank you for making him do so as well," he said, grinning as he released John's hand to take Sherlock's. "Tell him thank you?" Greg asked John. John turned to Sherlock.
"-You -want -me -tell -him -talk directly to you?" John asked and Sherlock glanced at the inspector.
"I never want him to talk to me," Sherlock answered, his mouth quirking to reveal the joke.
"Tactful," he answered, but he looked at Sherlock when he said it, apparently catching the correction. Lestrade stepped behind the podium and John turned to face the room, wanting to go home even if it did mean Sherlock badgering him into learning to sign the words for different transportation vehicles.
"Peter Ricolleti," Lestrade started, his voice too loud over the mic. "One of Interpol's most wanted list since 1982. Well, we got him, and there's one person we have to thank for giving us the decisive leads... with all his customary diplomacy intact," Lestrade said, glancing at Sherlock in apparent amusement. Sherlock glanced at John, looking curious.
"-P-E-T-E-R -criminal -fuck -not -spell -last -name. -First -most -want -paper -since -how -sign -thousand?" John asked. Well, hell. Lestrade was waiting for him.
"-Thousand," Sherlock showed him. Hell, that looked like 'again'.
"-Anyway, -most -want -since -1982. -We -got -him, -thank -you -you -got -him -with -all -D-I-P-L-O-M-A-C-Y -intact. -Sarcasm," John translated. Sherlock shot an amused look at Lestrade. The man nodded and handed him a wrapped package. The cameras flashed again.
"We all chipped in," Lestrade said.
"-We -all -buy -together. -He -say, -not -me," John clarified, suspecting there was a horrendous hat in Sherlock's hands. Sherlock no doubt knew exactly what was wrapped in his hands – he was already grimacing. Still, the man unwrapped it. Oh hell, he was right; it was a deerstalker. Sherlock was going to have a hissyfit when they got home.
"Oh!" Sherlock stated, mocking surprise as he revealed the hat.
"-He -owe -you -many -favor," John stated, glancing at the inspector. Greg was smirking at their prank. Donovan was grinning happily with Anderson, but at least they looked pleased enough with the case to be acting vaguely pleasant.
"Put it on!" the crowd demanded repeatedly. Sherlock glared at them, apparently understanding the gist of it on his own.
Sherlock had obeyed before John had figured out how to tell him to get it over with. Sherlock grimaced under the hat, hopefully enough to curtail any photos of him in it, though John doubted it.
Donovan clapped triumphantly and Anderson stared at her tits and Sherlock snatched the hat off again. John glanced at the time, hoping the conference was ending. It was 11:45, early yet but he wanted out of there.
"-Work, -need -go," John stated, Sherlock smirked at him, apparently knowing the time.
"-Wait," Sherlock signed suddenly, looking nervous. "-meeting -finish, -go -meat -store. -Two in the morning -come -home -maybe. -Not -good?"
John blinked. God, Sherlock didn't know how to do this at all, did he?
"-Fine," John answered.
"Other -couples -not like that," Sherlock stated.
"-We -not -other -couples," John answered, aware of the group of people now staring at them, cameras flashing. Donovan was glancing between them, looking almost concerned. Sherlock smirked at him and John turned to go, glad to get away from the flashing cameras.
~~/~~
John didn't see Sherlock at all that day. He went to work, half hoping he'd get a text luring him away from the grind of congested children and fevers. He ate left-overs that night and stayed on the couch until he felt pathetic and uncommonly lonely, not sure which bed to chose. He went to his own. The next day passed without a hint of the man and John went to his own bed again starting to wonder if the man had been scared away. Still, he'd told Sherlock nothing had changed and he'd meant it and this was hardly the first night he'd spend without any clue where the genius had gotten to.
~~/~~
Sherlock looked up from his completed clotting experiment and read his phone. 1:00 AM – good, the trials had taken longer than he'd expected but John still didn't expect him for – something felt wrong about that. Sherlock checked his phone again. April 16th. Oh...hell.
Sherlock grabbed his bag and ran for the door, leaving the clean-up for the butcher. He'd certainly paid the man enough for it. He hailed a cabbie a few streets down but it flew past him without even pausing. Sherlock growled and lifted another hand, only to have the cabbie's indicator flash to move over and suddenly die. The taxi pulled back into the street and drove straight past him.
What the devil?
Sherlock glanced down at his clothes and saw nothing but the black of old blood and the red of fresh. Well. That explained it at least.
"Cowards," he hissed aloud, starting for the closest tube entrance. It was two streets in the wrong direction but still faster given his normal running speed. The idiots. He'd have paid for the damn bloodstain removal. He grabbed a newspaper to cover his face at the sight of a pile of students walking together, two of them wearing the damned brimmed hat he had currently stuffed at the bottom of his bag getting as crushed as possible. The hat was ugly and out of style; there was only one reason they'd be wearing it. Fans.
He got home at 3 AM – the wrong day – and crept into the flat. A book on ASL left open on the couch – four options. Someone had been reading, someone had thrown it there for some reason or someone had fallen asleep with it over their eyes on the couch. John didn't read on the couch – he preferred the chair for its armrests and better light. He wouldn't have thrown it at anyone – he either shouted, went outside or shot people when he was angry. Mycroft had been in, that was obvious from the finger line of dust brushed off the mantlepiece – prat – but he didn't throw things either. Mrs. Hudson did – the baker downstairs had full proof of that – but she hadn't come in – again dust showed its eloquence. The book had likely been placed there then, not thrown, and Mycroft wouldn't have left it out. It was possible someone else had entered the flat but not likely – which left John picking up the book from the pile of ASL materials by the ugly lamp behind the couch but not to read it. To use as paper – he didn't do that, - to use as a coaster – they didn't use them – or to cover his eyes – probable. That was the only other thing he'd seen John do with a book. The pillow dent attested to it too – John had fallen asleep on the couch. He never did that unless he was keeping Sherlock company. Had waited up for him, then?
Sherlock winced and walked into the kitchen. His experiments had gone undisturbed. There was a knife and a plate in the sink. The knife was covered in nutella – a snack of digestives, then. The plate had the remains of Chinese fried rice on it and the overly-clean stove confirmed it; microwaved left-overs for dinner. Sherlock winced again and pulled open the door to his bedroom.
His heartrate quickened. Hell.
Where was John? Three remaining options: out of the flat, in the bathroom, or in his own bedroom. Sherlock grimaced and walked to the bathroom. A minute and a half would change nothing and he would be better off ready for bed when he checked upstairs for the man.
He didn't like that John hadn't waited for him. Why? That was illogical. Sherlock sneered at his expression in the mirror as he squeezed toothpaste onto his brush. John would clearly be more comfortable in his own bed; the only reason for sharing Sherlock's would be to share in his company. Sherlock had left, John had chosen correctly. So why did he dislike it? Sherlock started brushing his teeth.
Emotions were antagonistic to good reasoning and yet he couldn't get rid of them. He could either be happy or unhappy; and by rights happy was far more pleasant. Which meant, unfortunate that it was, that he had to find a way to keep John happy and sleeping in his bed – because illogical though it was, it was what he wanted. Sherlock spat his toothpaste into the sink and rinsed out his mouth.
He made sure to make noise up the stairs, banging against the floor and walls so John wouldn't wake up with him in the doorway. By the time he got upstairs John was awake in his bed, glaring at him out of one eye. Sherlock hovered, unsure what to do. He didn't want sex, he knew how to start that, but how did he – could he just climb in?
John threw back his covers, revealing half of the bed and closed his eye again. Apparently, yes. Sherlock accepted the quiet invitation and pulled himself under the covers, letting his bathrobe fall to the floor beside him. John pushed himself back in the bed until his back was pressed heavily against Sherlock's chest, apparently not minding the effort even at the early hour. Sherlock was grateful for it – his half of the bed was cold and he pressed himself forward against John's back. He felt John's spine vibrating and wished that he could hear it. A growl? Words? There was no way to tell.
The deafness wasn't worth it.
Sherlock growled at the thought and leaned over the bed to pull his laptop up from the floor. He did not have enough data to determine whether or not he should reinstate his deafness given the chance; emotions were clouding his reasoning yet again. Being deaf closed off an almost utterly useless source of sensory information; that was perfect for clear reasoning. Sherlock flipped open the computer against his pillow and let the light shine over his face. John grumbled and shoved his face into his pillow. Sherlock smiled to himself, opening his blog. 212 different deterioration rates in the Thames and their causes.
Nothing had changed. Relief was swamping his body. He had John – forever now, nothing in the way – and nothing had changed. God, it was brilliant.
~~/~~