Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC and the Godtiss.
A/N: Pretty sure you noticed that I post a lot. Am merely reposting this. I have a life outside this fandom (I THINK).
Cedric looks up from an upside down book of George Orwell's essays when Sherlock bounds into Mycroft's bedroom, his face set in an expression full of determination. Mycroft does not see it. Currently, Mycroft is sprawled in the middle of the bed, his face buried in the pillows, his shirt off and with a two-year-old seated on his freckled back. Clearly, Mycroft is not supposed to be disturbed. Drinking with several ambassadors then flying from Russia to England takes its toll on the average human body.
Sherlock does not care.
"Off," he says and when Cedric just looks at him, Sherlock grabs him and hangs him on the coatrack behind the door. This is not the first time Sherlock hung his nephew by his braces in certain convenient places. Mycroft did it often enough when Sherlock was younger. It is revenge, Sherlock thinks. Sort of, anyway. It's not like he can put braces on Mycroft and hang him. Sherlock would break his spine just trying to lift him five inches off the ground.
"Mycroft." Sherlock pokes him with his finger. When it doesn't work, Sherlock tries punching him. It does not work, either. Mycroft has always been a heavy sleeper. Jetlag and alcohol combined makes him dead to the world. Sherlock looks around the room for something a little heavier than his hands but there are none.
"I was in America," Sherlock growls at the still-sleeping Mycroft. "I was in America and I ran and chased small-time criminals for fun and you were just sitting at some party drinking champagne and eating canapés. And you still have the grace to be more tired than me."
Mycroft answers with a snore.
Sherlock huffs, bends his knees, and—
"Don't you even think about continuing what I think you're about to do," a stern voice says from behind him.
Like his brother, Greg, it seems, has developed the uncanny ability to detect whether or not Sherlock is about to make things more difficult for the rest of the world. He glares at Sherlock pointedly until Sherlock groans and straightens himself. "I know you don't weigh a thing, Sherlock, but I'm still not going to allow you to literally throw yourself on Mycroft," he says.
"It's important."
"It can wait." He leans on the door before Sherlock can say anything. The door thankfully doesn't slam on the wall but Greg's weight is enough to squish Cedric between the wall and the door. "Shit!" Greg yelps when Cedric begins to cry loudly. He jumps away then quickly retrieves his son. "Sherlock, how many times do I have to tell you not to do this?"
Sherlock's reply is to look back at Mycroft.
Still nothing.
"Fat," Sherlock mutters but even that doesn't stir Mycroft awake. Cedric's crying has moved to the beginning of a full-scale tantrum judging by the way he's currently flailing in Greg's arms. If Mycroft were awake he would sigh and look from Sherlock to Cedric then back again. But Mycroft is not awake. No, Mycroft has to act like a bloody grizzly bear in the middle of its hibernation. This isn't the first time Sherlock's seen Mycroft sleep through a hangover so he knows that it will be hours before Mycroft will wake up again. However, a very large part of Sherlock wants Mycroft to wake up now and a part of Sherlock that has always been with him just wants to annoy the hell out of his brother.
"Nice," Greg snaps when the two of them hear Beatrice from the room beside theirs, already joining in her brother's wailing. "Really, Sherlock, is it too much to ask you not to treat my kids like wet laundry?"
Sherlock doesn't like kids. They are noisy and inquisitive and they have sticky hands and runny noses and a penchant for claiming things that aren't theirs. It shouldn't come as a surprise to Greg when Sherlock answers with a solid 'no' but Greg still gives him that look. Sherlock easily interprets it as Shut Up This Instance or I Will Kill You Slowly. Sherlock disregards it, though, because a) while Greg is furious right now, he's too moralistic to kill anyone b) there is a child present and c) the person he's directing the look at is Sherlock Holmes aka the most stubborn person in the face of the earth.
"I would hit you right now but it's your birthday," Greg mutters over Cedric's crying. He sounds like an air raid siren and still, Mycroft doesn't wake up. "Expect a fist to your face when it's past midnight."
"I expect a gift," Sherlock says as he leaves the room. "A new microscope to be more exact."
Behind him, Greg swears.
"It's to annoy Mycroft. The guests won't arrive until seven, anyway, which gives me plenty of time to get back." Sherlock is wearing sunglasses. They're large and dark and obviously for show. "I figured I'd go here to alleviate boredom." Long fingers push them up the bridge of his nose.
"Um," is all that come out of John's mouth. To be fair, it's impressive that he's actually said something at all. Coming home to the flat you left not more than fifteen minutes ago and finding someone sitting on the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee in one hand is one of those situations where you should be awarded for being able to speak.
"Really, John," Sherlock says. He takes the glasses off and hooks them on the collar of his shirt. He's much paler there, the colour of his skin not matching the colour of his arms. Sherlock isn't tan, not exactly, but two weeks in New York has helped him lose a little of the ghostly pallor he so often has. His cheeks are flushed from the cold and he's wearing a red shirt and the jacket that John's been looking for since Sherlock's last 'visit'. It's too small and too big at the same time and John finds himself drawn to Sherlock's pale and bony wrists which jut out from the sleeves.
"Er, happy birthday," John greets a little blankly. "Not that I'm not happy to see you but…entering my flat when I'm out buying milk…it's more than a bit not good."
"I've done this countless of times before."
"Visiting," John says, "visiting is when you have the person's consent to enter his home. I don't think entering my flat while I'm sleeping or taking a shower then leaving before I can even acknowledge your presence can be considered visiting."
Sherlock merely takes a sip of his coffee. John sets the milk on the counter and steps back to look at Sherlock. Standing this close and after getting rid of the initial shock upon seeing Sherlock in his kitchen at eight-thirty in the morning, John sees the shadows under Sherlock's eyes and the sharpness of his cheekbones which are even more defined than the last time John saw him. "You're eating," John says and it's not a question either. Sherlock rolls his eyes at him but slips off the counter and heads to the living room.
"Wait!"
Sherlock pauses in the threshold.
"I haven't—the place is a mess. Sorry about that, by the way."
Sherlock frowns at him. "What mess?"
There is a mess. John's flat is one big mess. It's small and cluttered and very much an Alpha turf thanks to his friends who, despite having their own flats, find John's quite comfortable. As a result, there are stacks of empty pizza boxes and socks with no pairs and even a pair of neon green pants which John definitely does not have ownership of. It would take ages to clean so John doesn't bother unless it gets too much. It's not as if he has many visitors, anyway. There's Harry who's even more of a slob than his friends combined and there's his mother who, thank the gods, always calls ahead, giving John time to clean the worst of the mess. And of course there's Sherlock who never calls and just barges in whenever he wants, often at the worst times, say when John is just getting out of the shower or when John is fixing a light bulb. Acting shy about the mess around Sherlock is something, John realises, not rational, not when Sherlock, despite his posh clothes and golden family background, is capable of making a mess so great you'd have to have the British Government hire someone to take care of it.
"Right. Go ahead and watch some crap telly."
"These are yours," Sherlock says when John returns a few minutes later with a sandwich.
"What are?"
"These." Sherlock nudges a pair of red pants beneath the sofa with the toe of his shoe.
John blinks. They're his and they are clean, mind you. How they got there exactly, John has no idea. Bill, probably. They've done some stupid things when they were either drunk or trying to alleviate stress during cram sessions. The knowledge of his friends tossing his pants around for fun is not what disturbs John. The question, really, is how Sherlock knows they're his. "How'd you know?" John asks, expecting a litany of deductions.
Sherlock, to John's surprise, just smirks at him.
"That's…disturbing."
"Is it?"
"Your smile is. Move over. I'm watching Doctor Who."
"I hate this show."
"You hate everything on television. Your opinion doesn't count."
Sherlock grumbles at that but he eats his sandwich and actually remains quiet for a while. For a moment, John thinks that Sherlock might actually be enjoying the show. The fact that Sherlock thinks time travel is illogical, however, contradicts that. There is also the fact that Sherlock is now arranging John's limbs so that he can put his head on John's lap.
It's not something they haven't done before, really. John can't remember exactly how this arrangement began, but John knows that if Sherlock is jostling him and pressing his nose against John's stomach, it usually means that Sherlock is tired and John is available to serve as a makeshift pillow. There's something different about now, though, and it might be that John's hand has found its way in Sherlock's hair or because Sherlock is looking up at him with that piercing gaze that always makes John feel a little light-headed. There are breadcrumbs on the corner of Sherlock's mouth and John wants to wipe them away but his hand is busy rubbing circles in Sherlock's scalp and the other one is busy digging into the armrest.
"I have pillows," John attempts. "They're softer than my lap, you know."
"Pillows are useless. They can't massage my scalp," Sherlock says.
"No, they can't." Pillows, John thinks, are actually quite useful despite what Sherlock thinks. Pillows are for sleeping and for little girls and not-so-little girls who like to throw sleepovers and for teenage boys who—
"Focus," Sherlock mutters then grabs John's wrist and positions his hand at a spot behind his left ear. John scratches awkwardly as Sherlock makes a weird noise that sounds like a cross between a purr and a moan.
"You're like a cat," John tells him.
"I am not—oh, wait, do that again."
"Cat," John repeats as he scratches at another spot. "I had one before I met you—a cat, I mean. It was Harry's actually and it was a fat orange monster. Kind of like Garfield."
"Who?"
"Garfield? Really, Sherlock, you had a childhood. I was there for most of it."
"Deleted it, probably." Sherlock yawns and presses himself even more against John by rolling shoulder blades and giving him better access to the back of his neck. "My childhood and yours are different, John. You grew up normal."
"And you?"
Sherlock closes his eyes. "I grew up learning Greek and Latin with my fat git of a brother constantly watching over me as I wasn't allowed to go outside the estate. You played rugby. At age four I already had the idea of what experiments were."
John pauses. "You were lonely."
"I was not."
"You were," John says. "No wonder you hated me so much. It must have been weird for some stranger to enter your home and then get engaged to you. No, wait, that was weird, even for me. But you were—you only had Mycroft and you two don't exactly get along. I had friends. I had people who helped me make fun of what happened."
Sherlock goes quiet and John's hand stills completely. "It's funny, then?" he says. "Us?"
"There is no 'us'."
Sherlock says nothing but he pushes John's hand away and sits up. John isn't an expert in Sherlock and even though they have this weird emotional bond thing, Sherlock is adept when it comes to shunning John. He's doing it right now and John curses his stupid mouth and his stupid brain because that really wasn't what he meant to say.
"That night," John says and Sherlock stills, "You were being a prat. I brought you your coat and you told me I had chocolate on my nose."
Sherlock looks at him calculatingly. "You could have easily said Mycroft and Greg's wedding night."
"I could have said nothing at all."
"The chocolate," Sherlock mumbles, "is not important. Yet you mentioned it all the same."
"You kept staring at it."
"I was staring at your mouth."
It is a conversation long overdue.
John blinks and Sherlock blinks back. And John's hands—John's hands seem to have a mind of their own because they've found their way to Sherlock's waist and Sherlock's fingers are digging into John's shoulders. Sherlock's face is unreadable but all John thinks of when he looks at him is I want, I want, I will always want.
"Idiot," Sherlock mutters, sounding a little accusing, before he leans down and presses his mouth against John's.
It is a kiss long overdue.
It isn't very good either. There are teeth there and John's nose is pressed against Sherlock's, making it quite difficult to breathe It isn't like any of the other kisses John shared. He's only ever kissed girls, anyway, and they were soft and pliant in his arms. This isn't his first time kissing Sherlock either but experiments don't count so it is a bit of a shock to find that Sherlock kisses like he's fighting you. It's not much of a shock to find that he likes it because Sherlock bloody Holmes is kissing him.
Sherlock is the one who pulls away. His brows are furrowed and he's scowling. "That was," he says and John laughs when he falters because he's actually rendered Sherlock speechless.
"Too much?"
"Good," Sherlock croaks. He clears his throat then says in a voice more like his usual one, "That was very good, John."
"That wasn't your first kiss."
"Ah, no, but it was still with you."
"You said I tasted of dead fish."
"You did."
"Bastard." John's thumbs run over those impossible cheekbones and Sherlock practically melts in his touch. "You," John breathes. "Did you really come here just to piss off your brother or—or this?"
Sherlock looks at him for a long time. He has one hand on John's thigh, the other splayed on his chest. John's heart is pounding and it feels too big and too noisy in his chest and Sherlock is just looking at him. His mouth goes dry when the hand on his chest moves to the back of his neck.
"The latter," Sherlock says and John laughs then goes very quiet when Sherlock kisses him again.
A/N: Some of you might be curious about Sherrinford but he's not really important. At least, not in THIS story.
