Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them. The chapter title belongs to Michael Nyman.
Author´s notes: As always, thank you all so much for reading and of course to those who gave feedback, it's highly appreciated!
I have furthermore tried to use the appropriate apostrophe this time, which nearly broke my fingers a few times but I've gotten used to it (on the QWERTZ-keyboard everything is a little different). Reading should be more comfortable now.
Enjoy!
o o o
Hazard Control
o o o
Part 11: The Heart Asks Pleasure First
o
As the afternoon merges into evening, daylight becomes dusk, then darkness. Neither John nor Sherlock have fallen asleep, because staying awake is far too intriguing. Sherlock blinks; he can feel John´s mouth against his skin from time to time, pressing gentle kisses on his forehead, his temple, even his hair; it seems John is unable to contain his affection, and Sherlock finds he likes it. Nothing can happen to him as long as John is holding him like this, the world isn't so desolate a place any longer. John smells of home, and Sherlock thinks he can feel his strength.
"You're like a knight," Sherlock murmurs, hot breath ghosting over John's skin. The doctor, who's been dozing, smiles sleepily: "A knight?"
"Strong... valiant... loyal..."
"Okay," John chuckles, "I got it. What does that make you?"
"A king, naturally."
Another chuckle. "A good king, I presume?"
"A just king. I'd keep some dungeons, though."
"For the likes of Anderson."
"Oh no. Anderson's got the tar and feathers coming."
John grins at the thought.
Sherlock however thinks of the one time that Moriarty likened Lestrade to a king; an involuntary shudder runs through his body. Not because he's intimidated by Moriarty, he never was, but because it happened when all the dark things were still lying ahead of him.
It's like standing on the edge of an enchanted forest one has just escaped and looking back into the murky gloom, knowing full well that the wolves and goblins are still there. He briefly wonders where this image has come from, but John, who has noticed how he has shivered violently for a second, asks him what is wrong.
"Moriarty," Sherlock mutters; John tenses immediately. "What about him?" he asks, almost timidly.
Sherlock's voice is very soft as he tells John about the taxi ride and the story Moriarty had come up with. Another tremor runs through him, which he finds terribly annoying. But John gently runs one hand up and down his back in a soothing motion. "He really knew how to pull your strings," he murmurs. Predictably, Sherlock bristles.
"Come on," John teases, "Sir Boast-a-lot?"
"Not funny," Sherlock mutters, but at least he doesn't try to pull away. "And I'd rather be king anyway." It's an attempt to make light out of it, but John can tell he's still unsettled.
"What keeps bothering you about it?" he asks quietly, and Sherlock marvels at how well John knows him.
"He had people everywhere," he says, dreading his own words even now, "the cab incident only shows how well-supplied he was with everything. The term ´network´ is very appropriate. What if I overlooked something? Someone? What if it's not safe yet?"
John closes his eyes, because the notion that Sherlock might not be out of danger yet is too horrible to bear. He can't lose him; one day, when they will both be old, he will have to face something like that, one of them will have to go, but not now, not soon, not at all in the foreseeable future. He needs Sherlock in his life.
"Then we will deal with it," he said, "and when I say ´we´ I mean you and me." His hand wanders from Sherlock´s back up to his neck, threading the tips of his fingers through the curls. "But I honestly can't imagine that you have overlooked something, Sherlock," he says, "Because you're you. You don't make mistakes like that."
The warm weight which consists of 100% consulting detective and is resting comfortably against John increases a little as Sherlock presses even closer against him, causing John to reinforce his hold: "Stop worrying," he murmurs against Sherlock's temple. "I've got you." It's true, Sherlock realizes; John is not going to stand by and let anything happen to Sherlock if he can avoid it. And he's determined to.
"John," Sherlock says, and it sounds a little choked, which makes it all the more real, "I love you." His heart beats wildly again, because he still doesn't know what they are, and they haven't talked about it yet. Maybe this, huddling together under a blanket in a strange, fascinating and intimate way still doesn't mean that John wants to be together with him; maybe it's a one-time thing, born out of sentiment.
Maybe Sherlock's been rash to say it out loud, and he never thought he'd ever be able to do so anyway, but with John, it's been surprisingly easy because it's true. The words were out before he could stop himself, overwhelmed by his emotions. Show him how you feel.
John hesitates and Sherlock feels his stomach drop; not good, he thinks, beginning to tremble, definitely not good. But then John trembles as well, and his voice is hoarse and deep as he answers, slowly drawing out each word: "I don't know how you did that, Sherlock, but I think I damn well love you too."
o
For a moment, Sherlock forgets to breathe entirely. The sky has not come crashing down on him, on the contrary; he feels high, soaring above the clouds, liberated of everything which has been threatening and suffocating him. He has only experienced something similar once, namely while he was using drugs. But this is infinitely better; he is in control of himself, no chemicals are influencing his behaviour apart from his own adrenaline.
They are both shaking now, overhwelmed by the improbability and immensity of their situation.
The world as we know it has ended, John thinks, bedazzled, but actually that's not quite right- he has probably loved Sherlock for most of their time together in one form or another. His feelings haven't changed, only grown stronger until he realized what was going on.
And now he can feel Sherlock's slender fingers on his cheeks, touching him ever so lightly, trembling and exploring: "John." Only Sherlock can say his name in such a fashion, making it sound like a caress, like he, John, is all Sherlock needs.
It occurs to John that Sherlock has said his name like that hundreds of times: love, it seems, or at least attraction, has apparently been all around. He frowns at the cheesiness of this thought, but Harry always said that all the songs make sense when you are, well, in love. It seems to be true, then.
Happiness wells up in him once more and he smiles, knowing that Sherlock can feel it beneath his fingertips: "I love you," he repeats, so low it's barely above a whisper, "so much."
o
They do get up at one point, though it's with reluctance that they disentangle themselves from each other. But John needs to go to the bathroom, and they have both gotten hungry as well.
"Do you think the cook's still there?" John asks, but Sherlock shrugs: "We can go to the kitchen to find out."
The kitchen is deserted, but the fridge is well-stocked. "I can rustle us something up," John says, "won't take too long. Some scrambled eggs on toast, maybe?" He loves those. Sherlock doesn't care what he eats, so he agrees; he leans against the worktop and watches John preparing the food, still feeling the other's warmth.
John glances at him from time to time, and there's a smile in his eyes whenever he does. Sherlock fiddles with a wooden spoon: "Do you think we can make it work?" he asks, out of the blue, his voice soft and as deep as it gets.
"It?"
"This... us. I don't know what to call it."
John thinks that Sherlock being this insecure is adorable, but wisely doesn't say so.
"It doesn't matter what we call it." he replies. "It's you and me, isn't it?" He is a little high-strung himself now, because he can't quite believe what has happened yet. Nothing seems certain.
"Yes," Sherlock nods, absent-mindedly.
"Out with it," John says, partly because he wants to hide his own nervousness, partly because he can tell that Sherlock's still pondering.
Sherlock sounds forlorn: "I have never done this. I have never had... a relationship. What if I can't do it?"
A cold shudder runs down John's spine, which he has to ignore for the time being. He can't chicken out now, they need to get to the heart of this. He can't lose what he just started to have.
With a slightly shaking hand, he puts down the egg whisk he has been holding and turns towards Sherlock: "Really, never?" he asks quietly. "That makes me special."
"You are special." Sherlock's tone is serious. "And you deserve to be treated well. What if I insult you too much? If I can't be what you need? You know I'm different from other people, and once I'll be working again, I might... put you out. Say the wrong things, or... just be myself."
John takes the spoon out of Sherlock's hands and puts it aside, then wraps his own hands around the long, pale fingers: "You're not as horrible as you seem to think," he says, seriously. "And I've been living together with you for quite some time, in case you forgot. I know who you are, and that's the person I want to be with."
Sherlock's regards him almost timidly. "What if I hurt you?"
"Then Harry will come after you."
For a moment, Sherlock looks startled until he realizes that John's been joking.
"How can you be this calm?" he asks.
"I'm not," John replies, "I really am not, I... I feel dizzy and lightheaded and shaky because of all this. I am not taking it lightly, Sherlock, because you're my best friend and I know that a relationship will change everything. But..." he fumbles for the right words, "I can't go back to being just friends either."
"And this isn't too sudden?" Especially after Mrs Hudson has told him not to rush anything.
"So much for you and your brilliance," John says drily. "Or maybe I´m just that good."
Sherlock stares at him: "Oh."
And then things are starting to fall into place. The way John´s gaze usually softened when alighting on Sherlock, the neverending patience, the concern, the disappointment when Sherlock had said something not good. All those things have been there long before Moriarty made him step off a roof. Sherlock has been aware, on some abstract level, of John's affection, but he has never understood it to be more. To be fair, John apparently didn't either, but Mrs Hudson's obviously been right in her assessment of the situation.
"Come here, silly," John says, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around him, "do you even have to ask?"
Sherlock leans into the embrace and brings his own arms up around John's shoulder and his midriff; this is how it's going to be from now on, he realizes with a funny little jolt of his stomach, they can touch each other like this whenever they feel like it, no excuses needed. Well, that's not too bad.
o
Without having to talk about it, they both return to Sherlock's room after the meal. It's nine o'clock and neither of them feels like sleeping already, so they retreat to the sofa, where Sherlock stretches out and rests his head on John's thigh.
They watch another episode of Who Wants To Be a Millionaire, but this time, John hardly registers what's going on while Sherlock is muttering something about imbeciles. His hand is on Sherlock's shoulder as usual, but his whole body tingles with excitement because everything's changed. Sherlock's his now, and that thought makes him want to sing and dance.
"John," Sherlock asks, after the show is over and the doctor has switched off the TV, "stay with me tonight."
Immediately, John's stomach is full of butterflies again.
"I'd love to," he murmurs, carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair, playing with the fine curls.
"I don't mean-" Sherlock breaks off.
"I know," John seeks to reassure him, "me neither." Sex is an issue they're going to have to tackle at one point, but not now. They haven't even kissed yet, after all.
Momentarily, all John wants is to be close to Sherlock.
This afternoon under the blanket, they have been fully dressed, but it's an entirely different sensation to crawl under the sheets in their pyjamas together. However, neither of them hesitates to seek each other's arms again.
John can feel Sherlock's body through the comparatively thin layers of cloth between them and thinks it's marvellous; it's not comparable to that of a woman's, obviously, but there are still angles and softness and the sensation of a chest and a belly moving in sync with his own. There's warmth and heartbeats and entangled legs, delicate and intimate. Though John doubts he'll be able to fall asleep like that, it doesn't take long for him to doze off.
o
He wakes up early while the twilight of dawn is still present in the room. For a moment, he blinks, staring up at the bedcurtains in the profound relief that this hasn't been a dream. He is lying on his back, no longer entwined with Sherlock, but he can feel him close by, and when he turns his head towards him, Sherlock is there. He is lying on his side and doesn't look entirely awake yet, but it seems that he's been watching John.
A smile steals into the detective's eyes as the other man meets his gaze. Wordlessly, he reaches out and puts his hand on John's cheek: "I always thought love was nothing but a chemical defect," he murmurs, "but it seems I was wrong."
John smiles mischievously: "I'm sorry, I think I've misheard just now," he says, "could you say that again?"
"Not funny."
John presses his cheek against Sherlock's hand without breaking their gaze: "Sorry, love," he murmurs, but he still seems amused. A shudder runs down Sherlock's spine at the term, and he isn't really annoyed; John's eyes are too warm and affectionate to take the jest serious.
"You're amazing," he hears himself say; really, the words just seem to pour out of him these days.
John beams at him; apparently, it was a good thing to say. His eyes roam over the doctor's face, the shape of his mouth, the indeterminable blue of his eyes; not in a million years he could say what exactly it is about it that fascinates him, but he would like to wake up like this every day, with John's beloved features to look at. An admittedly soppy characterization of the situation, but an accurate one.
He is pulled out of these thoughts when John scoots closer towards him, nuzzling his nose against Sherlock's before gently kissing him. It's hardly more than a gentle brush of his lips, but Sherlock, who has closed his eyes at the contact, thinks it felt brilliant. And then John is doing it again, a little more firmly this time, and Sherlock kisses back. It's surprisingly easy and feels wonderful, not nearly as animalistic as he's imagined. Not repulsive at all. John's mouth is warm and soft and tender, and there's a thrill to being this close to him, doing something which requires so much trust and love.
o
It doesn't go unnoticed by Mycroft that John has taken to sleeping in Sherlock's room. He has been expecting it, of course, and much earlier at that, but for all his brilliance, his brother sometimes is remarkably slow on the uptake; usually, when emotions are involved. Only a fool would not have noticed the chemistry between Sherlock and John Watson; only a blind person could not have seen the looks that the good doctor has given the detective whenever he felt unobserved.
At first, Mycroft had put it down to something akin canine devotion, but he has learned a thing or two about John in the meantime. If Sherlock ordered John to jump, the doctor wouldn't ask how high and then do it, he isn't as simple as that. He would probably argue with Sherlock about it, and after the second or third time, he'd at least consider it, as long as he'd see a reason for it.
Mycroft is secretly impressed by the way John handles his brother; he is the only person who is allowed to breach Sherlock's most personal boundaries, and Sherlock still respects him. Values him, for heaven's sake, possibly even loves him. Mycroft smiles involuntarily; he is glad that his brother has found someone who is prepared to take him on, him and all of his quirks. John means the end of Sherlock's loneliness; for him, his brother even seems to be prepared to give up his status of "being married to his work", and therefore Mycroft appreciates him.
And decides to seek his advice. He catches John one early evening, as he is browsing through the shelves in the library; he has kept up reading to Sherlock, which they both enjoy, and they are out of books. The police's statement about Sherlock being innocent has been released that day, and John is tired of newspapers.
"A word, John," Mycroft says upon entering the room, and gestures towards the armchairs. "If you please."
John sits down with the vague suspicion that this is not about the press, but about Sherlock's and his relationship- The Talk, as people call it.
"Are you going to tell me that you'll have my head if I ever hurt Sherlock?" he asks.
"Oh, I don't think I even have to," Mycroft smiles that uncanny smile of his, which seems perfectly friendly and non-committal on the surface, but which gives John an uneasy feeling nevertheless. "Since you know perfectly well what I'm capable of."
"Yeah, I think I do. So what was it you wanted?"
He doesn't seem intimidated in the least. Good. Mycroft wants him to listen.
"You do remember the last time when you came to visit me at the Diogenes Club," he says.
John immediately bristles, but he tries not to let it on. "The day before... yeah. I do remember that."
"I have made a mistake," Mycroft states, rather bluntly. "I am aware that it was fatuitous of me to provide James Moriarty with the information that he obtained from me."
John folds his arms in front of his chest and waits for him to continue; the way he purses his lips tells Mycroft that he has not forgiven him about that.
"I was going to tell Sherlock the truth about it and apologize," the older Holmes quickly continues, "but now I'm not so sure if I should."
John stares at him and for the umpteenth time wonders how anyone can be so stiff. But at least Mycroft is considerate of Sherlock's wellbeing. And he is perfectly aware that Sherlock will never forgive him; it would forever destroy the newly achieved peace between the brothers, which is still fragile anyway. What's worse, though, is that Sherlock would probably lose the feeling of safety that this house is providing. And John can't allow that to happen. As long as Sherlock can't return to Baker Street yet, they need the shelter of this place, more than anything. Sherlock's probably irrational fear that maybe Moriarty's web isn't completely destroyed yet is still ghosting through John's mind.
"You will have to live with it then. If you tell him," he says, slowly and to some extent threateningly, "I am going to punch the living daylights out of you."
Mycroft looks taken aback for a moment, but he's getting his composure back quite quickly: "Well. I shall not say a word, then." He sits up straighter and squares his shoulders before meeting John's gaze again: "I am truly sorry about it, John," he says, his voice a lot less confident than usual. "I have been tremendously stupid."
"Yes," John nods, "yes, you bloody well have." He gets to his feet: "But it seems you have learned from your mistakes." With a nod, he walks out of the room, back stiff, head up high, book search forgotten.
Mycroft sits in the armchair a little dumbfounded, feeling as though he's just escaped an audience with the headmaster.
o
John is still fuming when he enters what he increasingly often calls "their" room. After that first day and night, it has quickly become clear that neither Sherlock nor he were going to change their minds about their situation, and he has not slept in his own room once since.
He is so blissfully happy that it's ridiculous, really; even now that he is angry about Mycroft, he just needs to think of Sherlock and the butterflies are there again, carrying him along. He doesn't know if he can ever forgive the older Holmes for what he did, but it's true that he thinks Mycroft has tried to make up for his mistake. And he wants Sherlock to get along with his brother, after all.
He can hear water running in the bathroom and goes to investigate; Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the tub, which is slowly beginning to fill. He is still fully dressed and is watching the water swirling about.
"I'm cold," he states in a low voice, looking up as John comes in.
They have spent the afternoon reading what the papers have to say about the surprising news; a lot of the articles were rather annoying, claiming that they had known all along. Some were even quoting the "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" movement which has developed and which has gained a surprisingly large number of followers. John is aware that he has unintentionally started it with the last blog entry he has ever written, on the day of Sherlock's funeral: he had simply stated that he believed in Sherlock Holmes and had not looked at his blog once since then. But there were enough people who had followed his blog with interest up to that point, after all, and who had not turned with the press when Sherlock had been declared a fraud.
o
John closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, who leans his head against John's belly.
"Are you all right?" he asks. Maybe it's just a hunch, maybe he's seen something in John's face. It is after all rare for him to miss something.
"Yes," John gently reinforces his grip. "I am." Now I am, he adds in the privacy of his mind.
Sherlock would have loved to ask John to join him in the tub, but they haven't even been nude together yet, and it'd feel awkward. Of course John has seen him naked before and has even helped to dress and undress him while he was ill, but somehow that's different.
The hot water is a blessing though his cold toes ache fiercely for a few minutes. He hadn't noticed how cold he was at first, despite sitting next to John on the sofa and having a fire in the fireplace; when John had gone to the library, he had begun to shiver and had briefly considered crawling into bed to warm up, but the tub seemed to be the more attractive alternative.
He lies back and calls for John, who has gone to stoke the fire.
"Coming," the doctor closes the door behind him. "just wanted to make sure the room stays warm."
For me, Sherlock realizes.
"Did you find a book?" he asks, peering over the tub.
"No. Mycroft interrupted me."
"What did he want?" A frown is visible.
"Talk. You know, of the 'I'll break every single bone in your body if you hurt my brother' kind."
The frown deepens. "Really?"
"Well, he may have used other words."
"Hm."
Sherlock contemplates this for a while. It's needless to ask how Mycroft knew about them in the first place; he always does.
"I hope you told him that I'd do the same to him if he laid one finger on you," he says after a while.
John smirks; Mycroft is bound to know that. "I don't think that's necessary. He knows you, after all." But it is good to hear it from Sherlock. He feels even more guilty about not telling the truth, but on the other hand, the truth would make Sherlock miserable, and he can't have that.
His phone buzzes in his pocket; it's Harry. He has seen this coming once the truth about Sherlock's out, but he still isn't prepared to talk to her. He is going to call her later, maybe tomorrow. He needs a little more time to think about what to say precisely.
"Why aren't you answering it?" Sherlock inquires.
"It's Harry. I'm not in the mood."
Sherlock remains silent for a while: "She is calling you because of the articles. And you know that talking about the topic will inevitably lead to your tellling her about us. Which you dread, because you don't know how to explain it."
"That's about right," John concedes. "And I don't even know what to call you."
"The name's Sherlock."
"Haha, yes. You know what I mean. How am I going to introduce you if we meet someone I know?"
"This is Sherlock?"
"Yes, but... what if I want to make it clear that we're together?"
"This is Sherlock and we're together. It's very easy, actually."
"Not what I had in mind."
"What did you have in mind then?"
"I don't know... this is my boyfriend?"
"Stupid. We're not boys."
"Manfriend then."
"Shut up."
"Partner."
"Sounds like we are running a company."
"Significant other."
"Isn't that implied anyway?"
John sighs. "Lover."
"Too technical."
"Fine... love."
"Hm. Yes."
"Really?"
"It's accurate, isn't it? And it's better than the others."
"Oh, I wasn't done yet. There's also darling, honey, sugar, babycakes, baby- stop that!" A gush of water has hit him square in the face. He grabs a towel and dries himself off: "So how am I going to introduce you? This is Sherlock, my love?"
"Why do you have to introduce me at all? I'm perfectly cabable of doing that myself."
"Yes, but what if I want to?" There's so much warmth in his eyes again.
"Fine. If you absolutely have to, introduce me as your boyfriend."
John can't keep himself from grinning like mad when he crouches down in front of the tub and rests his arms on the rim: "Who are you and what have you done to Sherlock?"
Sherlock's gaze is soft as he beholds John for a moment, affection evident in his features: "I don't know. It seems that someone has taken him and given him a heart."
o o o
To Be Continued
o o o
Please leave some feedback.
o