Chapter Ten

A Frank Conversation

Sherlock is woken by a gentle rapping noise. He sits up in bed, the duvet pooling around his waist. The alarm-clock on the bedside table is flashing 7:00 in large red letters. Ah yes, John ordered breakfast and that must be it at the door. As he swings his legs out of bed he glances down at the sleeping man beside him. John is curled up on his side, and his arms are a little outstretched as if he is missing Sherlock's warmth already. Sherlock smiles slowly and, before he can help himself, leans down and presses a kiss to John's temple. John snuffles and buries his head deeper into the pillow. Feeling a little foolish, and overly sentimental, Sherlock inhales sharply a few times before pulling one of the plush hotel dressing-gowns around him and moving through the suite to the front door.

'Good morning, sir. Here is the breakfast for you two you ordered.'

Sherlock takes charge of the trolley the young woman at the door begins to wheel in.

'Thank you. You may leave.' She blinks at him and suddenly he thinks he has maybe been too abrupt. 'Have a nice day,' he adds hesitantly and is rewarded by a slightly bemused smile and a nod as the woman turns and makes her way back down the corridor.

Carefully Sherlock manoeuvers the trolley into the bedroom, he is interested to note that even in a superior hotel the trolley's wheels don't seem to work any better than the supermarket ones John is always complaining about.

'Breakfast, John,' he announces, pulling the heavy curtains apart and letting a flood of early morning sunlight into the room. John grunts and turns over, pulling the duvet over his face. Sherlock pauses. He has never had to wake John up before. What is the correct procedure? What are they to each other? Surely more than friends, however their new relationship has not been cemented and John has not informed him what the appropriate method of awakening the other person is. When he was young his nanny used to wake him up simply by yanking the duvet off but he doubts this will go down too well. 'John, breakfast!' he tries, in a slightly louder tone. There is still no indication that the doctor is waking up. Sherlock frowns and glances at the breakfast trolley. In approximately three and a half minutes the tea will become tepid, any longer than that and it will be cold.

He crosses to the bed and grabs John's shoulder, shaking him vigorously. 'John! Wake up!' The doctor sits bolt upright in bed, eyes wide, short hair sticking out in various directions.

'Sherlock? Are you alright? Is there a fire? What's going on? What did you do?' These questions leave John's mouth at the speed of light, presumably without any interference from his brain. Sherlock, who has taken a step backwards, gestures at the trolley.

'Breakfast.'

John stares at him blankly for a second or two. 'You woke me up like that to tell me that the breakfast arrived?'

Sherlock scowls, thinking this is slightly unfair. 'I tried calling out a couple of times but that was insufficient. In approximately three minutes the tea will become tepid and...'

'Sherlock,' John groans, rubbing his hands into his eyes as he relaxes against the pillows, 'waking somebody up like that when it is not an emergency is a little not good. Christ, you almost gave me a heartattack.'

Sherlock nods slightly. 'Noted. I shan't do it again.' He begins to cast around the room for clothes to wear and begins dressing while John watches from the bed. 'You should get dressed and have breakfast. That inestimable idiot, Inspector Clyde, wants us at the station for nine o'clock.'

'Well then, come and join me,' John murmurs and pats the bed invitingly. Sherlock glances at him.

'No. I can't eat, particularly in the mornings, you know it slows me down. Ten minutes, John.' With that he sweeps out of the room. John blinks at the empty space where he was and sighs. Climbing out of bed he pulls the trolley towards him. A softly steaming kettle is accompanied by two china tea-cups, a small jug of milk and a metal container of boiling water. Next to that is a toast-rack with four slices of lightly-toasted bread, two white and two brown. There is cereal, bowls, a selection of spreads, some fruit and even a small selection of cooked meats and scrambled eggs. Two tall jugs full of apple juice and orange juice are also present. It is a breakfast selection designed to please almost any appetite, apart, John thinks rather bitterly, that of Sherlock Holmes.

Slowly he nibbles on a square of toast as he drinks his tea. He can't hear anything from the living-room and assumes that Sherlock is organising his mind for the day ahead. Once he's eaten his fill he wraps a buttered slice of toast in a napkin and starts getting dressed. Holding the wrapped toast loosely in his hand he wanders out of the bedroom.

'Sherlock?'

The detective is sitting on one of the chairs in the living-room, his shirt unbuttoned. John's gaze travels down to the flapping gauze at his side. Sherlock is tentatively poking around the injured area and hissing in breaths between his teeth.

'Sherlock, what on earth are you doing?' John cries, striding over to kneel down next to him and slapping the detective's hand away from the cut.

'I wanted to assess how fast it was healing. The gauze was irritating me,' Sherlock snaps in response. John glances at the wound which glares startlingly crimson against the snowy backdrop of Sherlock's waist.

'Did you mean that in the sense that the actual material of the gauze is irritating your skin or just that it's generally irritating in the mental sense?'

Sherlock huffs a little but mumbles that the gauze physically isn't doing him any harm. John nods and refastens it, ignoring Sherlock's petulant scowl.

'You have to keep this on, Sherlock, for now at least. Once we get back to Baker Street you can probably take it off and air the injury but right now I want to prevent infection, okay?' He shakes his head slightly. 'How come you constantly end up at the mercy of nutters with knives?' Sherlock's eyes narrow.

'Hardly constantly, John. It was only twice in the last month or so.'

'I wonder if I'll ever remember what it's like to lead a normal life?' John murmurs in response, almost to himself. Sherlock's brows knit together.

'Is that what you want after all, John? A normal life? Are you perhaps having second thoughts? Because it's not too late for me to catch my flight, I haven't cancelled it yet.' John stills and leans backwards so he is looking squarely into Sherlock's face. There is a slight anxiety in the detective's eyes and one of his hands is absently tugging at his hair.

'Shut up, Sherlock. I'm staying put and so are you. I texted Mycroft last night to ensure he cancelled the flight. I didn't want you having second thoughts.' John gets to his feet and collapses in an armchair opposite the sofa Sherlock is reclining on.

'John...' Sherlock begins but the doctor hushes him by shaking his head slightly. He knows that at some point they will need to sit down and have a proper talk about where they now stand and exactly what their relationship is, but he can't face it now. All he wants to do is go to the damned station, give their statements and then head back home.

Although... he has never been to Bath before and has always wanted to. Perhaps, if he approaches it right, he may be able to convince Sherlock to stay for a few days longer as a sort of mini-holiday. He also has a feeling that any talking they have to do might be better conducted in a neutral space, somewhere Sherlock cannot stalk off to play his violin and John can't decide that they're suddenly out of milk in order to vacate the flat.

'If we must,' Sherlock says suddenly, jerking John out of his thoughts.

'What?'

'If you really want to stay here for a little longer we can.'

'How on earth...?'

Sherlock smiles slightly and launches into his explanation. John lets him talk; propping his chin on his hand he lets the words wash over him as his eyes drink in every little part of Sherlock. His nostrils flare when he gets excited, John notes absently, watching as Sherlock makes a particularly emphatic hand gesture which almost knocks over a decorative vase standing next to him. The detective's eyes are a shining blue today with flecks of green and his pale cheeks are flushed pink which only accentuate those amazing cheekbones. My God, I love this man. I bloody adore him.

'John? John?'

John comes back down to earth with an unpleasant bump and actually jolts slightly in his chair.

'Hmm?'

Sherlock pouts, the tips of his fingers together in his classic thinking pose. 'Have you even been listening to a word I was saying?' John shifts guility.

'I may have zoned out, but I'm sure it was brilliantly deduced.'

'Of course it was,' Sherlock retorts before leaning closer. 'What were you thinking about just then? The oddest expression crossed your face. I couldn't read it.'

John blushes slightly and gets up abruptly, really not wanting to drop the L-word on Sherlock right now, just when the detective is getting his head around them being romantically involved.

'Nothing.' John checks his watch. 'We should really get going, it's almost quarter past eight and I have no idea how long it will take to get to the police station from here.'

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. 'Hardly any time at all and besides they're idiots, they can wait. What were you thinking?'

'We shouldn't keep them waiting, Sherlock, it's not polite. Besides the sooner we get there and get it done the sooner we can enjoy the rest of our holiday.'

Sherlock slumps back on the sofa. 'Oh God, it's a holiday now is it? I suppose you're expecting us to wander around holding hands and take photographs of perfectly boring and ordinary buildings?'

John swallows, as this is just what he'd been envisioning, and turns away. Stupid to think that Sherlock would agree to such behaviour, let alone enjoy it. 'Come on. Button up your shirt and lets get moving.'

In a few minutes they are ready to go, as they exit the room John presses the napkin-wrapped toast into Sherlock's hand, ignoring the predicatable glare in response.

'Eat it. That's not a request. Besides, you just finished a case, you can't use your 'It'll slow me down' excuse.'

'It's not an excuse, it's a verifiable fact,' Sherlock gripes but bites off a small corner of the toast nonetheless.

By the time they've reached the outside of the hotel Sherlock has polished off every last bit of his breakfast and John has to stifle a smirk. He has found over the the years that often, although the detective may insist he isn't hungry, if he is made to eat he usually finishes it all. John rings for a taxi and within minutes it pulls up outside. Sherlock folds himself gracefully inside and John scrambles in after him.

XXXXXXXXXX

It's half past eleven when they finally exit the station, due to the fact that Inspector Clyde made Sherlock go over and over his statement. At times it even seemed to John as if the police officer were deliberately attempting to trip Sherlock up over something, as if he believed the altercation in the hotel room went very differently to how Sherlock said it did, despite the overwhelming evidence on the tape-recorder.

Eventually, however, Clyde was forced to admit Halworth's guilt and let them go.

Bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, John glances around at the ever-busying street. 'Right. What's the plan then?' He turns to glance at Sherlock who appears to be going through some sort of deep emotional turmoil if the way his torso is tensed and his eyes tight is any indictation. 'Sherlock?' John asks a little worriedly, sometimes even for him it's difficult to tell what's going through the detective's head. Without speaking Sherlock thrusts out his left hand and blindly gropes for John's right one, finding it eventually. Once located he grips hard and stares straight ahead. John blinks. 'Sherlock? What are you doing?'

'Practising,' Sherlock grits out. 'Lead on.'

After about five minutes of wandering aimlessly, John begins to lose the feeling in his hand and brings them to a halt. Sherlock looks sharply at him, wondering at the reason for the sudden stop.

'You can loosen your grip a bit, you know,' John says gently. 'It's not supposed to be a chore. And I'm beginning to feel like my fingers are going to drop off any minute now.'

'Sorry,' Sherlock says stiffly, easing his grip a little. 'You know I'm not used to this.'

'It's not supposed to be something onerous,' John says carefully. 'Just do what comes easily and naturally, do whatever feels right. We don't have to hold hands if you don't want to.'

'Ah. Good,' Sherlock responds, dropping John's hand almost instantly. The doctor has to swallow the sudden stab of hurt and hides it by gazing around at the scenery.

'We should probably think about lunch soon,' he says heavily. 'I don't want to hear any arguments, it doesn't have to be anything big. There's any number of likely looking pubs and cafés around here.' Sherlock is staring at John intently and doesn't reply. Taking that as an affirmative John begins to walk again, keeping his eyes out for anywhere which looks like it might do nice food. Sherlock follows behind and after about two minutes of walking John feels a hand slide into his, warm and comforting. He looks at Sherlock who shoots him a glare as if daring him to say anything.

Feeling a beaming smile spread onto his face he tows them in the direction of the centre of town.

After a small lunch at what proclaims itself to be Britain's Smallest Pub, they hit the streets again. John is keen to see Pultney Bridge, the Abbey and Milsom Street, with possibly a visit to Sally Lunn's afterward. He also hopes that tomorrow he may be able to coax Sherlock into coming with him to the Thermal Spa, the top pool of which boasts a view which looks over the whole of Bath.

Suddenly he feels himself being towed into a small side alleyway and is then unceremoniously pressed up against the brickwork of the wall. He is about to ask who's chasing them and why, when Sherlock presses against him and brings their lips together. The kiss is fast and deep, Sherlock's need making itself clear both through the way he moans lightly and nips at John's lower lip and the half-hard ridge of flesh which is currently pressing against John's hipbone. John surrenders to it, opening his mouth a little to allow Sherlock access, widening his legs slightly so that Sherlock can slot a thigh between them.

Fire seems to be coursing through his body, little nerve endings are tingling on his arms, chest and neck. Kissing Sherlock is so different to what he has ever felt before, it feels completely right. All the women he's been with in the past immediately seem like amateurs, even though Sherlock is the one who'd never kissed anybody until a couple of days ago. His hands plunge into Sherlock's inky curls, tugging on them lightly, an action which makes the detective groan low in his throat and attack John's mouth with even more vigour.

Eventually John feels he has to call a halt otherwise it's very likely that he will end up coming in his trousers in the middle of the day in an alleyway which isn't really that hidden from the main street. He places his hands in the centre of Sherlock's chest and pushes lightly. The detective gets the hint and pulls away with a little moan of disappointment, his hair adorably dishevelled and his full lips flushed and swollen. Unable to help himself, John glances down at Sherlock's groin and sees the unmistakeable bulge.

'I'm sorry but you said to do what feels natural and...' Sherlock begins, panting a little for breath.

'Don't apologise,' John gasps, leaning forwards and placing his hands on his knees in an attempt to regain some semblance of dignity. 'That was bloody incredible. How d'you learn to kiss like that?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'Elementary, my dear Watson. It is simply a matter of biology after all.'

'Yeah? Well in that case I'm never going to tease you about being a nerdy scientist again,' John responds, finally getting some breath back and straightening up. Sherlock looks mildly affronted.

'You've never called me that anyway,' he says, 'have you?'

'Not to your face,' John replies, grinning. Reaching out a hand he smoothes the unruly curls back into order and takes Sherlock's hand.

They get back to the hotel around six o'clock. John is keen to go out to eat and feels like he should change into something a little smarter than a raggedy jumper and jeans. Sherlock, as usual impeccably attired in black suit trousers and a tight red silk shirt has no need to change and stands by the bedroom door as John flings shirts out one by one onto the bed.

'How about this one?'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'No. Too dressy, looks like something you'd wear to a black-tie event and we're only going out to eat.'

John rummages around and finds a dated, dark blue denim top. He holds it against himself hopefully. 'This one?'

'Come on, John, you outgrew that in your twenties. Next.'

'This one?'

'Do you have any decent shirts?'

John scowls and reaches deeper into his case, finally dragging a final option out. He holds it out for Sherlock's inspection, a little tentatively.

'What about this?'

Sherlock is about to issue another scathing statement when he looks more closely at the shirt in John's hands. It is silvery grey in colour and is made out of some sort of crushed linen. He takes it and examines it carefully then steps up and holds it against John.

'Yes, that one,' he says abruptly and leaves the room. John smiles slightly and begins getting dressed.

XXXXXXXXXX

'I cannot believe everywhere is full,' Sherlock snaps, his brows drawing together in consternation.

'Well, there must be spaces somewhere,' John replies, staring around at the bustling streets. Although it is scarcely seven-thirty, almost every restaurant they have visited so far has a waiting list of at least an hour.

'Typical of a tourist trap,' Sherlock sniffs, wrapping his scarf tighter around his neck. 'You'd not have this sort of problem in London.'

'London is the biggest tourist trap in Britain, so shut up,' John returns amiably, drawing Sherlock off down another street. 'Come on, let's find one of those little side streets. I'm sure there's bound to be a pub or something that has some tables free. It'll be like an adventure.'

Sherlock stares at him as he trails along behind. 'An adventure? After all that we've been through on various different cases and so forth, you're calling this an adventure?'

John ignores him and after a little walking down various small, cobbled streets he finds himself staring up at a swinging pub sign. It depicts a dark bird in a red frock coat with a walking stick doffing a black top hat. The peeling black letters beneath proclaim the establishment to be The Raven. For some reason the image appeals to him as he can't help but see Sherlock doing exactly the same thing. The man's always seemed to John like he belongs in a different era anyway. The doorway is unusual to say the least, an incredibly narrow entrance with three uneven steps leading up to it. There is the sound of muted conversation from inside.

'How about here?' he says hopefully. By this time his stomach has started complaining quite vociferously. Sherlock sighs.

'Anywhere. It's your choice, you're the one who wanted to go out after all.'

John pushes open the door and makes his way inside. The pub isn't any bigger than it looks from the outside and is very rustic in appearance. John is pleased to see it hasn't made any obvious attempt to turn itself into one of the new gastro-pubs which seem to be popping up all over London. He approaches the bar and the man behind it, who is sporting an incredible grey beard, turns to him, a friendly smile on his face.

'Hi, I was just wondering if you had any tables free?'

The man grunts in acquiescance. 'Think there's a few available upstairs. Just to your right.' And he helpfully points in that direction. John can almost hear Sherlock's brain coming up with some smart-alec comment so he hastily drags the detective out towards the staircase, calling a thank-you to the bartender as he does so.

Soon they have settled themselves in a cosy corner in the upstairs room. John scans the menu while Sherlock amuses himself staring around at the clientele and whispering various amusing deductions to John.

'I'm going to have the steak pie I think. What about you?' Sherlock stares at the menu disdainfully.

'Is there anything on here which isn't drowned in calories and fat?'

'You could have a salad,' John quips. 'Just have the same as me, it sounds good.' Sherlock heaves a long-suffering sigh.

'Fine. Should I place the order?'

'Alright. Get me a pint of Fosters while you do it.'

As Sherlock makes his way through the narrow room to the bar at the other end, John's phone dings with an incoming text. He glances through it quickly.

'Here. Food will be about fifteen minutes apparently, although I doubt it,' Sherlock announces, setting John's pint in front of him and settling back in with his own glass of red wine.

'Got a text from Inspector Clyde,' John says, gesturing to his phone. Sherlock looks disinterested. 'Apparently Halworth's been charged with grievous bodily harm, corruption of a crime-scene and accessory to manslaughter amongst others. They're looking for Hannah Blake now.'

'Predictable,' Sherlock drawls, taking a sip of his drink. 'Honestly, I get excited about the possibility of a killer who is obssessed with Roman history and fluent in Latin and instead I get a corrupt police officer. Dull. I knew it was a mistake coming to Bath.'

John spots an opening here and takes a fortifying gulp of his Fosters. 'We should really talk, you know, Sherlock.'

'Ah, yes. Fire away.'

'This isn't going to be any good if you're going to be glib,' John says. 'For this to work I need you to be open about your feelings.'

Sherlock looks conflicted and stares down at the wooden tabletop. 'You must understand that is difficult,' he says eventually. 'These feelings I have for you, I cannot quantify or explain them.'

'That's natural,' John reassures him. 'The first thing I have to talk to you about is going to be the most difficult so we should get it out of the way first.'

Sherlock looks uncharacteristically anxious and begins tugging absently on a curl just above his right ear. John tries to ignore how adorable he looks and stares in the other direction.

'I've mentioned the fact that, while you were gone, I attempted suicide twice,' John murmurs quietly. Sherlock blanches and he looks as if he's about to speak. John holds up a hand to stop him. 'This is hard, Sherlock, so don't interrupt, please. The first time was in the flat when I...' he falters slightly and then collects himself, '... I considered shooting myself. I got as far as putting the gun in my mouth and then Harry rang. The second time was on Hungerford Bridge. I thought I was forgetting you. I couldn't remember details and it scared me.' He stares directly at Sherlock. 'You mean more to me than anything, Sherlock. Can you understand how much it frightened me to forget you?' He drops his gaze to the table. 'I'd had enough. So I was standing on the edge of the bridge and... this is going to sound ridiculous... but I heard you. I heard your voice. You told me to hold on, that you were coming for me.' He shrugs and takes another gulp of his drink. 'I didn't know what to make of it, but it brought me to my senses.' He glances back up at Sherlock and is horrified to see silent tears streaking those pale cheeks.

'I feel guilty, John,' Sherlock manages at last, not making any effort to stop his outpouring of emotion. 'You, over the past few years, I can't even explain it. I've never even had a flatmate before let alone a friend. I felt a connection with you I haven't with anybody else. I did what I did to help you, to save you and all I did was make things worse. I wouldn't have known what to do if you'd succeeded in your attempts.'

'Well, thank God I didn't, eh?' John says, trying for a light tone of voice. The truth is, he feels ashamed of his efforts to end his life. Now, with Sherlock beside him, it is difficult to remember that darkness into which he'd sunk.

'I mean it, John,' Sherlock says earnestly. 'The thought of it makes me sick and frightened. Promise me you won't do anything like that again.'

'I promise,' John responds. 'But the reason I mentioned it is so you could understand why I reacted the way I did when you returned. I hated you Sherlock. I hated what you'd made me become, I hated my dependence on you... I was a soldier! I fought in a war and yet I was almost broken when my flatmate left.'

They are interrupted by the arrival of the food. The plates are set down in front of them and they wait until the waitress has disappeared before speaking again. John toys with his fork as he continues.

'Correct me if I'm wrong but I've always felt there's some sort of connection between us. Ever since we met, there was something.' He waits but Sherlock is silent. Taking this as encouragement he continues. 'I think it's that which made me agree to meet you, a man I hardly knew, to share a flat. It's that which made me accompany you to that crime-scene, to shoot a taxi-driver for you. I only realised our connection once I thought you'd left me forever.'

'I'm sorry.' Sherlock's voice is cracked. 'I never... you have to believe that...'

John reaches out and rests one of his hands over Sherlock's on the table. 'I do. I accept now that you did what you did for me. I may not understand it, but I accept it. And I forgive you. You have to forgive me now. For treating you like I did once you came back.'

Sherlock's voice is shaky as he replies. 'Knocking on your door was the hardest thing. I'd tortured, maimed, beaten and killed people. I lived through so much darkness and yet when it came to coming back to you I was... scared.' He meets John's eyes and the naked emotion in them is obvious. 'I wanted you to forgive me, I wanted things to go back to how they'd always been. I needed your steadfast support. All my life I've been reviled and criticised. I've been called a freak, a robot, a machine. I wasn't always that way. I've had to harden myself to adapt. I have a superior intellect and the general stupidity of people irritates me. I tried fitting in, but it never worked. Finally I decided that the only way I was going to survive was to develop a hardened outer shell. Mycroft was fully supportive of this, in his opinion feelings bog you down. I followed his example and I thought I'd succeeded when suddenly you come into my life. You challenged me without even knowing you were doing so, John. I can still never predict what you're going to do next sometimes. You're exciting. That moment when you called my deduction of you amazing, that's when I knew you were someone different.' He pauses and takes an absent bite of his pie. 'These last few days were horrendous without you. Inspector Clyde and his force weren't accepting of my presence and threw the usual jibes at me. I found them harder to deflect when you weren't there. I felt I had to leave, John. That moment in the living room was the best and worst moment of my life. All at once I had all I ever wanted, but it was wrong. You were angry, and drunk. I hoped you would remember, but you didn't. It hurt me. I wanted to talk, but you didn't. I began to realise that you would be happier without me, however knowing I was still alive this time. I thought I would give you a chance to move on, to marry and have children. I can be selfless for you.'

John's eyes finally give up their battle and the tears spill onto his cheeks. It's lucky they're in an isolated corner, he thinks vaguely. He clutches Sherlock's hand tighter.

'We belong together, Sherlock,' he says. 'We always have done. I need your passion in my life. I need the excitement, the danger, the thrill. I need you.'

'What does this make us?' Sherlock asks tentatively.

John shrugs. 'Do we need a label? Why can't we just be us? Or, if we have to say something, I think partner works. Or other half?' He smiles at Sherlock and leans over to press a quick kiss onto that cubid's bow. 'Since that's what you clearly are. The other half to me.'

'I can live with that,' Sherlock agrees, his pale cheeks flushing. 'I do have to warn you that I may be difficult. I don't understand relationships, or the requirements of them.'

'It's a learning curve,' John responds, smiling. 'And since when do you have to warn me you're going to be difficult?'

'Touché,' Sherlock replies, taking another bite of his pie.