It starts with the shoes. 'His shoes' Sherlock mutters, and in the back of the taxi he purses his lips and thinks back. John can see it on his face, mapped out in the fault lines across the skin there that the memories are not like old friends, and he waits, in the silence, until Sherlock emerges from his trance.
'Where I began'. And it's strange to think. Sherlock's so enormous, so clever, and endless. John always assumed he didn't have a beginning. And yet, ten years ago John was quite unchanged. It's strange to think of a seven-year-old Sherlock, a prodigy, a mastermind, who everyone passed off. Everything gets passed off eventually: sense, looks, youth.
It obviously wasn't a good time, and John fades into looking out of the window. If there's one thing worse than passing Sherlock off, then it's pitying him.
That night Sherlock examines in the kitchen, doors closed, totally alone. His focus is so intense. When he had wanted John, he'd thought of nothing else, not food nor rest nor preservation. Had made a call from Minsk that stemmed from his lust. If John were a lesser man, he'd be jealous. Everybody who knows Sherlock Holmes knows that his work comes first.
Eventually, the silence, the lust and guilt and shame and worry for a desperate stranger strapped to semtex gets to him, and John slides open a door, peeks his head through and sighs. There's Sherlock, standing tall, coatless and in all of his glory. Of all the months they've known eachother it's only then that John sees it: Sherlock's shirt. The way it strains, tight and ill-fitting. Sewn for a fifteen-year-old.
"How can I help?" But so engrossed, so focused on this pair of shoes, shoes over John, Sherlock doesn't seem to care. It's not as if he needs help. "I want to help." John says. he does, he really does want to help. But not with the shoes, or the past. No more work.
John walks towards Sherlock, hands on the boys hips, and goes to kiss him, had missed the touch of Sherlock's white hands, has missed being able to smell tobacco on his hands, taste it on his lips. And for a second, for a snatch of moments, Sherlock succumbs and lets his eyes slip close, stops thinking, focusing, calculating, screaming inside his head.
But it doesn't last, and Sherlock pulls away, turns back to his first and most pure love, the one that doesn't corrupt him. At this point in time he supposes one is easier to come by.
"Friday." He mutters, and John goes to argue, take it back but Sherlock's far too smug and clever and witty for that. "I suppose nobody likes to be kept waiting." The deep purple of the shirt is stark against Sherlock's pretty, frail wrists and John wonders what it would look like against the dark of the carpet, or up against these spidery thighs.
And they're so close, they have so many opportunities. All of them are wasted and John will regret it, tear himself up over it. Nobody likes to be kept waiting, and John would wait alot longer than he'd anticipate.
The second is Janus Cars. The picture. God, that case. Between Sherlock arriving they'd chase eachother into the bathroom to hold eachother against the tile, to crash their lips together, let their hands roam. Underneath that ridiculous cool and beneath that snowy skin are warm insides, and John wants to know every inch of him.
The call, the work comes and suddenly Sherlock doesn't look up, doesn't notice when John is in the room. He doesn't even care about the stranger in a London crowd. Whoever it is, playing these games- whoever Moriarty turns out to be, he's certainly got Sherlock's attention . It's terrifying, because Sherlock is already indulged to excess. The cases keep him alive, and he interacts, has a slim shot at normalcy, with John. This destroys it.
Sherlock's sees everything, and he knows how restless John is getting, it reminds of calling in the cold of a Belarus night. He wants John to take him, thinks about it and has to laugh. He's heard John's campaign to seem noble, to abstain. And all the other piteous platitudes of pathetic misery. He laughs and laughs, John will come again, ask for more, sooner.
And bless his heart, John is so simple! Easy to mess with, confused, delude. between gathering scraps at the crime scene, between tormenting a 'grieving widow' Sherlock grabs John fiercely and they kiss, Christ, he goes in with such gusto and the rest of the Yard staff fall silent, gasp and watch John make these little noises, oh, Sherlock, no we musn't-
After Sherlock walks like he's seen nothing, done nothing. And John just stands there, all eyes are ice. Watching him. It's satisfying, but Sherlock can't deny that there's lust rising in his chest. He might be difficult, incorrigible at times, mostly, often, always. But he's not a Hypocrite. Friday it is. Friday it must be.
And even Sherlock doesn't know. How could he?
The third, they stay shy of any other public displays, and the fourth they stay apart. The nights are long and hard, and John sleeps on the sofa because Sherlock's breathing keeps him awake. Anger, his skin makes John sick in the night , nauseous, nauseous, nauseous. In fact, despite his antics earlier, Sherlock pities John for all of his want and orders them apart for reasons unsaid. John goes off just fine, investigates a little. He pleases Mycroft, settles him, behind Sherlock's knowing (so he thinks).
"It's going...yeah, it's going great." And John only says that because he can't explain to Mycroft elaborately how he plans to fuck Sherlock that Friday night after an amazing dinner and hours of desperate languid foreplay. No, that's a shade too dark and he settles for ambiguity. All the while Mycroft rubs his jaw and smiles like he's got a secret.
"I may be frank with you, John, mayn't I?" As worrying as that it, John is compelled to nod. He never expects it from Mycroft, but it comes all the same. "Please, and I mean this in all earnest-" He waits a beat for the punchline. "-make love to Sherlock sometime soon. I fear he needs it."
It will haunt him until he dies. Only Mycroft would order that to happen. And only Mycroft would use the phrase 'make love'. It's nearly enough to put John off the whole thing entirely.
Nearly.
By Thursday evening, John can't be near Sherlock, this boy who's on the verge of turning eighteen, who is so nearly accessible, so nearly touchable. He has to go to Sarah's. Not that he wants her, but he wants to get away, needs to. That taste of his lips will be enough to drive him insane.
Sherlock promises to get the milk. And the beans. John takes a good long look at him, breathes in the smell and essence of Sherlock, wants to remember him like this. A good thing to.
Two hours later and John's at his side again. Across the chlorine floor there are vicious red dots, this little smile hidden in burgundy eyes. The playful Irish thing must only be twenty-at most. He's smaller than Sherlock and something inside him is worn.g Like all his strings have been broken, or his vessel has taken too much damage and has cracked, split open. At his feet, there lays a bomb. And Sherlock, with sniper targets stapled to him, shoots his gun.
The trigger grates. John closes his eyes and prays. To nobody. There's a definite crunch of bullet, but nothing happens. Above him, Sherlock stares wildly, in disbelief, at the vest that lies there, a single bullet embedded. The Irishman laughs and laughs.
"Oh, Sherlock," He scorns, and Sherlock growls, fired the gun again and again. Deafening shots whip through the waters. John sees the gun empty, sees it fall to the floor. They're dead. They must be. John wants to reach out and touch Sherlock, confirm he's still there but something about him is gone. Sherlock has cheated death too many times to start keeping rules.
The Irishman is cackling now, high-pitched and manic. Another slice catches John across the ears, and it's not Sherlock, couldn't be. The laughter surrounds them, eats them up, swallows them whole. Sherlock falls onto the ground, and his eyes are open.
They remain on John, still watching, just watching.
