~~ One Breath 11: The Morning ~~

A blurry haze of light began creeping up on John's brain. Additionally, the dull, painful sound of a voice wormed its way through his ears straight to his pain receptors. Female, older… ah. Mrs Hudson. John was entirely unable to comprehend what she was doing in his bedroom at this time. He wasn't sure what time it was, but it felt way too early to be woken up.

She seemed to be calling his name. Perhaps something was the matter? He vaguely tried to assess his bodily functions. Was he injured or something? With another stabbed reminder he noted he had a headache. Also his back was killing him. His arms and legs were at unusual angles… well, one arm, that was; he couldn't feel the other one at all. Also, his bed seemed to have suddenly turned into wood and felt suspiciously like a flight of stairs.

"John? John!" Mrs. Hudson tried again. She sounded a little worried but mostly exasperated. "Sherlock! Come on, boys," she insisted.

John felt, rather than heard, a low grumble vibrate next to his ear. He directed his attention to it and found that he was lying on something soft and warm and covered in a shirt. As if triggered with an electric shock from the origin of his cheek, his skin suddenly developed a surprising sensitivity as he registered the feel of a coat drawn across his back, his legs tangled with other legs, his hand pressed somewhere underneath said shirt against soft skin…

The sudden wave of senses sweeping over him unfortunately brought with it a wave of remembering and… nausea. He blinked and immediately felt dizzy. The light was glaring and bright and he wasn't sure which memory his brain ought to tackle first. John groaned, half of the sound being muffled by the chest his face was pressed into. The body that smelled, felt and sounded like Sherlock. Oh dear.

"Dearie me, you really went to town last night, didn't you?" Mrs Hudson was prattling on in amusement, pulling the coat – Sherlock's coat – from John's shoulders. John shivered at the lack of warmth; or perhaps it was the nausea, who knew.

"Sherlock!" She tried again, but to no avail. "John, come on. You better get to bed and sleep it off properly. I'll bring some aspirin," she added helpfully and bustled away to her flat. Painkillers, oh yes, divine idea. John would have confessed his undying love for their landlady then and there if he hadn't felt like throwing up as soon as he opened his mouth.

He slowly began to extricate his dead arm from where it was trapped behind Sherlock's back, wincing from the onset of violent pins and needles. Sherlock moaned weakly beneath him, a sound that bypassed John's brain entirely and went straight to his bones, turning them into mush. He felt his face flush and suddenly had to fight a very alarming mixture of arousal, nausea and fondness welling up inside him. Okay, one thing at a time.

John scrambled off of Sherlock – oh God, had he been pressed up to him like that all night?! – and sat back on the stairs. He wasn't sure whether to feel completely thrilled at their nightly adventure or to feel absolutely terrified. Probably a bit of both. Sherlock finally roused himself a bit and pressed a hand to his head and groaned in pain. John felt a stab of smugness at this; even the great genius wasn't immune to ludicrous amounts of alcohol. That was something, at least.

Mrs Hudson returned and smiled at John. "Well, that's better, dear. Care to give me a hand with this one?" She gestured at Sherlock, who seemed to have trouble focussing on anything or anyone.

John felt more likely to be a hindrance than a help, but nodded. He took a few deep breaths and very slowly got to his feet. Thankfully, the nausea kept quiet for now, but he decided he needed to lie down again as soon as possible. Which right now seemed to mean: as soon as Sherlock was up the stairs.

Later, John was never able to recall how they managed it. He draped one of Sherlock's arms over his shoulder, and Mrs Hudson held on to the other one, walking backwards up the stairs. She dragged and John heaved, and Sherlock at least kept his legs steady and didn't impede their progress too much. They reached the landing, and as soon as they stood, Mrs Hudson scurried around Sherlock's other side and helped to carry him.

John's head pounded with a vengeance. Being wrapped around Sherlock like this suddenly felt achingly familiar; like a half-remembered dream in which he had been allowed to try anything. And yet it had been too brief. He just let Sherlock kiss him to his heart's content before they fell asleep... and now he wished he'd done more himself. Said something or done something to make sure this was not just a one-off, a drunken joke... The memory was all too blurry and marred by fuzzy inebriation to be very reassuring as to what it meant. John yearned to go back to that moment in the half-dark corridor, to replay the scene and to take in every sensation the feel of Sherlock's body pressed against his, the feel of those lips on his, to catalogue it all for future reference, in case this was the only... the last time...

Oh God, that was definitely a terrifying thought. To have been allowed to snog Sherlock Holmes, to find out that it was everything he never dared imagine and more... and not to do it again. He felt almost sure that the kiss hadn't just been an 'experiment' to Sherlock; the way he'd looked at him in the bar and all of the little moments that followed... but it was all so unclear, he might have imagined things. John knew he was a hopeless romantic, just as he knew that Sherlock would usually never let his guard down so much... Hm. There was a thought. Would it be worth to get his flatmate regularly pissed just to have an excuse make out with him? Hangover versus snogging Sherlock... Yeah, definitely worth it, John thought wryly.

He had to work very hard at that moment to not let these stray memories of the previous night go any further into detail about bodies flush against each other and hands tangled in hair... or he would probably combust on the spot. So he gritted his teeth and focussed on carrying his friend, putting one foot in front of the other.

They reached Sherlock's bedroom. Mrs Hudson let go of her burden for a moment and darted in to throw back the covers on the bed. John managed to pull the large coat and the suit jacket of Sherlock, who finally decided to wake up a little more from the jostling. He gave a displeased grunt and made a valiant effort to walk, which was, of course, doomed to fail. He tripped and fell with the grace of a disoriented cat, tumbling headfirst into his bed. Unfortunately, John was still attached to his arm at the time, so he tumbled right along with him. He was sure he made quite an undignified sound as he lay half on, half off the bed, trapped by Sherlock's lanky frame.

Mrs Hudson looked like she was about to laugh, but thankfully kept herself in check, smirking at John's expression. She pointed at the pills she'd put on the bedside table. "I'll just get you some water," she whispered and went back in the direction of the kitchen. John took a deep breath. Then another one. He glanced over at Sherlock, who still seemed oblivious to the world and their current predicament. He tried to wriggle free, but either Sherlock was a lot stronger than he looked or John was simply too hungover to coordinate his muscle movement. John's hand hovered over Sherlock's shoulder for a moment, then his waist, then his hips, unable to decide what to do. It was impossible to move them both into a more comfortable position without manhandling Sherlock again, but John was incredibly reluctant all of a sudden. Touching Sherlock had never been an issue until now – the man wasn't exactly big on the concept of personal space – but suddenly it seemed like he was taking advantage of it.

John mentally shook himself. Okay, no need to be squeamish about this. He snogged the living Jesus out of you last night, he won't mind... oh God. John felt his heartbeat increase in tune with the images flitting through his brain again. It was typical, in a way. Sherlock always did things that infuriated John; it seemed he was also a terrible tease to just go and do something like that and then leave him hanging, wondering what would happen next.

He looked back at Sherlock, who had shifted a fraction... but it was enough. Their faces were close, close enough to feel the faint breath tickling his skin. Sherlock's eyes were closed, the long, dark lashes delicately resting on his cheekbones. A few messy curls stuck out everywhere, ruffled by sleep and... another image popped up in John's head, of his own hands running repeatedly through Sherlock's hair, trying to pull him closer...

John took another deep breath. He finally threw his other arm around Sherlock and with the leverage, heaved them both higher up on the bed. At least now his legs weren't dangling uncomfortably over the edge any longer. Unfortunately, he was now even closer to the man in his arms. John swallowed. A soft feeling crept slowly into his heart. He knew it well; in fact he was so familiar with it he'd almost learned to ignore it. But now, with John's guard down, the long suppressed emotion saw its chance to return with a vengeance. It gripped his breath with a sudden force, stopping it in his throat. His arm felt heavy on Sherlock's waist, his face inching closer. John's chest felt like it was going to burst and his eyes were burning with a strange fierceness, watching the man he...

The sound of footsteps returned.

A heartfelt, motherly sigh swept through the room. "Oh, look at you two," Mrs Hudson whispered affectionately. John was only half paying attention, his heart nearly suffering from whiplash. He tried to pull his thoughts together, inching away from Sherlock's face as much as he could in his current position.

"I'm afraid... bit too much to drink last night. Lestrade's birthday..." he muttered.

"Yes, dear," Mrs Hudson murmured, completely uninterested. "I'll just put these over here, yes?" There was a bit of a bustle at the end of the bed. "Oh and let's... get you comfortable, shall we?"

John vaguely noticed she was pulling off Sherlock's shoes. Feeling embarrassed, John quickly kicked his own off by himself. His movement didn't go entirely unnoticed; Sherlock murmured something inaudible and his hand gripped the front of John's shirt. He pulled his legs up further to his body, sliding one leg over John's, effectively catching John in an inescapable, Sherlock-shaped trap.

"I, uh, could use a little help here," John stammered in the direction of where he assumed Mrs Hudson to be.

There was a short silence and he counted her breathing. "No dear… I don't think you do," she finally said, a smile in her voice. There was something that was different from usual, John noticed. She was usually teasing them – a lot, actually – but she was always playing their supposed relationship more as a joke. This time, it clearly wasn't.

John barely noticed her leaving, because Sherlock had moved again, brushing against him, making his body tingle everywhere they happened to touch. The silence of the room was only broken by Sherlock's soft breathing and a faint murmur of a radiator somewhere. He was pretty sure he'd stopped breathing hours ago.

John decided he had to calm down or he'd probably throw up, and that would mean he'd have to leave the bed. So he simply looked at Sherlock for a long while, focussing on his breathing, thinking of nothing but the face in front of him, waiting for his heart to slow down. The body underneath his fingers was warm and familiar, and a quiet happiness stole over him. John let out a long breath and finally relaxed his muscles. What was it yesterday Lestrade had said? That he was an idiot. John glanced at the shocking reality that was Sherlock in his arms. Yes, he really was an idiot.

He was in love with him. As simple as that. A wild thought came into his head that even if this was the last closeness, the last hungover cuddle he'd get, he'd enjoy every second of it as much as possible.

He grabbed the last bit of courage his brain allowed him and leaned forward. He gently pressed a kiss to the tip of Sherlock's nose. Sherlock's face twitched briefly, and then, to John's intense satisfaction, his lips relaxed into a small content smile. He pulled John a fraction closer and John let him, holding him tightly and dropping gradually back to sleep.

~~ SH ~~

Sherlock awoke some hours later. How late, he wasn't quite sure, but it was daytime. The first thing he noticed was a dull headache and his dry tongue. He hated hangovers; that's why he rarely got drunk. He didn't like how that dulled the senses. He backtracked through the evening in his mind and wondered why he hadn't stopped the drinking earlier, after having been tricked to go to the pub in the first place… oh.

John.

The experiment.

Well, two experiments, really; both a success. Confirmed: alcohol lowered inhibitions, even Sherlock's. It may also turn people sentimental. However, he had also been somewhat overcome with sentiment on other occasions when John was around, namely when he had nearly died, and then when he'd woken up in the hospital. So perhaps it hadn't been the alcohol, but merely the effect of John on his nervous system.

Also confirmed: kissing John without the distraction of blood, chlorine and mortal danger was much more pleasant. Brilliant, really. The next experiment would have to determine if it could become an even more satisfying experience without the taste of alcohol on their tongues and with all their mental faculties present.

However, this was where Sherlock hit the first snag: Lowered inhibitions meant that John had been less than clear-minded about going along with the experiment. Sherlock had taken advantage of it, naturally. He felt no guilt at the thought – John had seemed to enjoy the activity at the time. Then again, Sherlock had to concede that he had been rather preoccupied— soft lips, surprisingly willing, a body pressed against the wall, pliant and responsive, a shared breath... He shuddered slightly. His senses may not have supplied him with accurate data.

All of these recollections buzzing through his mind slowly awoke the rest of his senses past his own throbbing head. There was something heavy pressing down on him and he noticed the familiar smell of John's shampoo. He moved his head a little and blinked.

John was soundly asleep, his head resting in the crook of Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's arm was inexplicably around him, as if he'd tried to pull him closer during his sleep. The thought created a warm and fuzzy sort of sensation in his stomach that Sherlock wasn't sure he was quite awake enough for. John's arm was lying protectively across Sherlock's chest. It was warm and comfortable, and Sherlock had no idea how they had gotten to this point.

In the hospital, Sherlock had indulged in being close to him when he joined his bed. He had felt the need to make sure John was alright, that he wasn't going anywhere. Again, John hadn't minded, and... The last thing Sherlock remembered was them collapsing in the hall downstairs. Somehow they must have gotten into bed, and for some reason, John had decided to stay. Lestrade's words suddenly came back to him as he regarded John's arm effectively trapping him safely in bed.

Have you considered that John might feel more than friendship towards you?

Yes, of course he had considered it. He was also very much aware of the fact that so many little things about this could be incredibly misleading. He'd meant it at the bar the night before: he had observed couples before, and most of them, it seemed, threw themselves into relationships with people entirely unsuited to them. Most of them did it because they were lonely; some of them simply for the sexual aspect of it; some because they thought that that was just what one did (he partly classed John in this category) and some of them because they had masochistic tendencies and deliberately stuck with people that were bad for them. All in all, nothing Sherlock would consider worth his while.

His head was aching fiercely, but he forced it onwards. So his body instinctively reacted to John. And John to him, it seemed. The kissing had certainly worked out surprisingly grand. But in the light of day, Sherlock doubted that John would like to do that again. He might feel more than friendship, but he would never act on it. Sherlock briefly considered getting John drunk again to repeat the experiment, but that seemed more than desperate.

So. John would either be awkward about his drunken misstep, or he would be terribly sentimental about it all. He remembered John's earnest look and his words, I don't actually mind. Was he just expressing his comfort at being this close a friend? Or did he mean that he actually wanted them to be a couple? Oh dear. John becoming sentimental about it might lead to him expecting all sorts of things from him, which Sherlock would be unable to provide. Then John would be upset that Sherlock didn't play by the mysterious relationship rulebook that John had learned by heart at some point. And he'd be disappointed and... leave.

Faint tendrils of horror crept up through Sherlock's chest and gripped his heart. Involuntarily, his arm tightened around John and his hand splayed on John's back, pulling him close. John made a soft noise and his hand slid further up Sherlock's chest. The warmth was soothing, but not enough to combat the developing minor panic attack.

John leaving was absolutely unacceptable. His life... and John's life... had become so much better since they lived at Baker Street together. Sherlock knew he'd cope on his own, of course he would. He had before. But suddenly, he didn't want to any more. Life was suddenly, surprisingly, more enjoyable, and barely coping was not something he strived to go back to.

No, the only option was to try and continue as they had before. He'd pretend everything was normal and ordinary, and if John wanted to try and repeat certain experiments, he was definitely open to that; but he wouldn't push anything, in case he was mistaken about John's... feelings on the matter. He cringed at the word.

He never thought that John would become his most difficult case to date. He needed to think clearly, and having this soft, warm body sleeping half on top of him, a body that smelled so familiar and so... wanting more... it was doing things to Sherlock that he'd never admit to anybody. And it messed with his head. Unacceptable.

He slowly disentangled his arm and his body from John, trying very much to ignore the insistent signals from his body that told him to stay right there and, even better, wake up John in a decidedly unambiguous manner.

Oh Jesus. Sherlock fought down the images that presented themselves to his head and slipped silently out of bed. A cold shower sounded like a great idea.

~~ SH ~~

When John awoke, he was alone, in Sherlock's bed. Unfortunately, he was also utterly sober by now. The drunk abandon of the night before had faded completely, as had the soft, hungover sentimentality of the early morning. He sat up, holding a hand to his head. Intense embarrassment swept through him. A million thoughts pushed through his aching head. He looked around. Through the drawn curtains he saw dull light and heard the noise of the street. It was probably sometime in the afternoon. He hadn't slept this long in ages. Not that he felt exactly refreshed or rested.

On the bedside table he saw the aspirin and the glass of water Mrs Hudson had left. He gulped both down quickly to at least relieve one of his worries. He looked over Sherlock's bed, wondering when he'd gotten up. Sherlock.

Suddenly, he had to go. He couldn't stay in here one minute longer. He felt mortified at having invaded Sherlock's privacy like this. What had gotten into him? He should have left him there and gone to his own bed.

John left the bed, steadied himself and let out a forceful breath. He picked up his shoes and padded to the door. When he opened it, he froze. Voices drifted over from the sitting room. John opened the door a little wider and listened a moment. The voice was unfamiliar and had a pleading quality to it. In between, John could discern Sherlock's deep baritone mumble monosyllabic replies. A client, then.

John groaned a little. He quickly assessed his options. He didn't fancy slinking past a client, coming from Sherlock's bedroom, looking as ruffled as he did in last night's clothes – people already talked, didn't they? He may not mind, but it was still a bit too much out of his comfort zone. Perhaps a shower was a better idea for the moment. John sneaked into the bathroom and was immediately assaulted by the smell of Sherlock having had a shower before him.

He marvelled at what a difference last night had made. For weeks, he had gotten used to the closeness of living together with Sherlock. Had become accustomed to Sherlock's complete ignorance about personal space. He knew the man's eating habits (if he ate), the way he liked his tea, the slight blisters on his fingers after he'd played the violin all night, lulling John to sleep, the smell of his shower products and aftershave. It was absolutely ridiculous that these things should suddenly come into such stark focus.

After a shower that was perhaps a bit longer than usual, John tentatively snuck back through the corridor, wrapped in a towel. He was still dripping a little, but he simply wanted to get to his room as quickly as possible. The flat was silent. It seemed he was in luck - the client was gone. Knowing Sherlock, though, John suspected he was lying on the couch or sitting in his chair completely motionless, thinking about the case. So John opted to skip the sitting room and moved quickly through the kitchen door to the landing.

"John!"

John's heart nearly bolted from his chest. Sherlock stood right in front of him, clad in his coat, looking ready to go out. His phone was in his hand.

John made some kind of unintelligible noise, staring at Sherlock.

Sherlock was staring back, his lips slightly parted in surprise. Slowly, almost forcibly, his eyes dropped to the towel slung around John's waist. His eyes widened, and then travelled unbearably slowly up John's torso, finally meeting John's gaze once more. John blinked and tried to take in the widened pupils, to understand the flush that tinged Sherlock's cheeks, mirroring his own.

John cleared his throat and held the towel a bit tighter. He saw Sherlock swallow almost unnoticeably. "Good morning," he said, his voice much steadier than he felt. He tried a little smile to take away the sudden heaviness that seemed to have developed around them.

"Uh. I just texted you the address," Sherlock said, still sounding a little stunned.

"What?"

"There's a case," Sherlock said. A mask slid back into place and his face looked impassive again. Back in control. John wished it was that easy for him.

"Our client's girlfriend disappeared; I suspect she's involved in a series of robberies Lestrade hasn't managed to solve so far, so…" he gave John a non-committal shrug. "Thought it might be interesting." His voice belied absolutely no interest in anything whatsoever. John frowned a little. This didn't sound at all like Sherlock when he was on a case.

"Uh, sure, I'll just…" John made a small movement forwards to get to the stairs. Sherlock took just a moment too long before getting out of the way, looking extremely out of sorts. John managed to get past him and turned around. Sherlock began heading down the stairs quickly. "You going?"

"Yes. I sent you the address. You can meet me there."

They hesitated for a moment. "Sherlock… are you all right?"

Sherlock's lips pressed together in a tight-lipped, completely fake smile. "Yes, of course. See you there."

He practically ran out.

John heaved a deep sigh. It was going to be a long day. He trudged up the stairs to get ready – to follow this mad man into another adventure.