Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
Author´s notes: My thanks to you, as always.
This chapter contains another teensy bit of intimacy (still nothing graphic and easily missed if you blink).
Enjoy!
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Hazard Control
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Part 13: Eyes Wide Closed
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Detective Inspector Lestrade has always been of the opinion that people who can't work in a team are loose cannons, unpredictable factors which might endanger the lives of others. He still thinks that's true, but he has had to learn that there are exceptions. There are people who are great in a team but potentially dangerous for individuals nevertheless.
Ever since the fairytale case, as he secretly calls it even though it sounds treacherously harmless, he finds himself doubting his faith in his co-workers, especially Donovan. It probably isn't fair, since Sally Donovan has always had his back if he needed her to, but he can't bring himself to forgive her for what happened.
He tells himself it's probably as much his own fault as anyone else's, since he could have put his foot down to prevent the events which had unfolded upon her accusations, but he is aware that it wouldn't have done Sherlock much good; Donovan had been too convinced of the detective's guilt, and along with that git Anderson she would have gone straight to the Divisional Commander without consulting Lestrade if need be.
Donovan has of course noticed that her boss has been distant lately, and he has made no secret of the fact that he has been mourning for Sherlock Holmes, that he deeply regretted what has happened and didn't believe a word of the slander which had followed. She has watched him brooding over old files, but has not once sought to talk to him about it.
Their relationship has changed from something akin to familial to strictly professional, and even though Sally isn't happy about it, she knows there is nothing she can do. She doesn't quite understand what it is about Sherlock Holmes that has won Lestrade's irrevocable loyalty to the man; he may not have been their culprit after all, but he still was an arrogant sod, too irritating for his own good.
Something about Lestrade has changed now, if very subtly; ever since their statement has been released and the press has been feasting on it, Lestrade seems relieved, somehow. Which Sally finds strange, because it didn't bring the freak back from the dead. But maybe her boss felt he had made up for something, she muses; maybe it has calmed his conscience.
If she is completely honest with herself, she has been having second thoughts about the whole affair from time to time, but they never lasted long. All the evidence had been pointing to Holmes, after all, and if Lestrade hadn't been so smitten with the guy, he'd probably have put two and two together and obtained the warrant of arrest himself.
What Sally can't know is that it's exactly this attitude of hers which made Lestrade cautious around her, and he has repeatedly been considering suggesting her a transfer to another division. Now that he knows the truth about Sherlock, these thoughts are surfacing again, and while he is downright happy about his knewly-gained knowledge, he is rather certain that he doesn't want Donovan around much longer, and certainly not if Sherlock comes back to work on his cases. When he does. Lestrade is determined to make sure of that.
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John slowly floats back to awareness, blinking his eyes open and wondering where, and how, and when before he remembers; it's the middle of the day and he is lying in bed with Sherlock, naked. He tries to ignore the part of him which faintly reminds him that it's neither the time for respectable people to be lazing about nor decent to be doing it in such a fashion, but John isn't bothered in the least.
He is marvelling at the warm body in his arms, the slight snuffling of a dozing Sherlock against his collarbone, the afterglow of having taken the next step. Contentedly, John presses his cheek into the unruly dark curls which have been tickling his skin; yes, other people are working right now. Yes, other people can't allow themselves to luxuriate in their private needs like this. Yes, it's possible that there are cameras somewhere in this room. John couldn't care less. He feels far too happy and there is no other place he'd rather be.
They have slowly undressed each other and taken their time exploring. He has been expecting that Sherlock would be interested by his scar, fascinated by the way it still mirrored the violence of the bullet's impact, but to his surprise, Sherlock had seemed dismayed. He had looked at it for a long moment, then had raised his hand to John's face, wordlessly cupping his cheek with one tender motion. And John had felt loved and cherished.
They didn't get round to it yet, but John is fine with that. They were both on uncharted territory, there was no need to hurry. It was simultaneously alien and not strange at all to touch and feel and taste another man's body.
John was a little timid at first because Sherlock seemed frail in his nakedness, but that was fine because Sherlock was timid as well, if for different reasons. He had never been intimate with anyone before, and to him, it was much more difficult to comprehend what was happening. He felt a little embarrassed about his body's obvious reaction at first, but John didn't seem to mind, on the contrary. They grew bolder after a while, and Sherlock realized there was nothing to be ashamed of.
John's fingers gently run down Sherlock's shoulder, and he smiles as he thinks about Sherlock's little gasps and the way he shuddered when John kissed his way down his chest. He is ticklish just below his navel, John knows now, and he likes having John's hand on his belly.
Sherlock stirs as John continues to caress his shoulder, his neck and the soft skin behind his ear, pressing his face more firmly against the other's skin. "You smell good," he murmurs, eyes still closed.
John smiles again: "Of what?"
"Of you." Sherlock's voice is low as he answers.
"Care to elaborate? I don't know how I smell."
"I can't describe your own scent." It smells like home to Sherlock. He hesitates, taking stock before he continues: "Your own scent is the underlying base. On top of it is warm skin, and soap. Your aftershave. Sweat, too." He hesitates. "All of this, really." Of course, the different scents which come with being intimate are new to Sherlock as well.
John's hand slowly wanders to his love's face: "I'm smelling of you too, then." He can feel Sherlock's smile underneath his fingers.
The detective listens to John's heartbeat, which is slightly erratic at the moment, and buries his nose in his skin once more: his aftershave is something citrus-y. A subtle green scent he has always associated with John, not very unlike his own.
"Can we just stay in bed today?" he murmurs, making John shudder. The doctor shifts until they are face to face: "We don't have anything else on the agenda, do we?"
Sherlock shakes his head; he briefly thinks he should remember something, but that notion is drowned out by John's lips against his own.
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Neither of them hears the door opening, but the gasp which follows is clearly audible, and then Mrs Hudson gives a small mewl and flatters her hand in front of her face, not knowing where to look and therefore looking anywhere but at John and Sherlock, who have frozen: "Oh... oh boys, I'm so sorry, I haven't knocked loud enough, oh dear," and then the old lady all but flees the room.
John and Sherlock stare at each other speechlessly for a moment before simultaneously bursting into giggles.
"Poor Mrs H.," John gasps once the bout is over, and Sherlock actually manages to look contrite: "I completely forgot she was coming over," he says, astonished that that is possible at all, and a little indignant at that. "Me. How peculiar." Which immediately destroys the remains of John's composure.
It takes another five minutes until they are dressed and have sufficiently recovered. While John makes up the bed, Sherlock goes to look for Mrs Hudson. He finds her in front of the Kandinsky, looking flustered and intently studying the painting.
"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock says, "we lost track of time." To his horror, he feels himself flush when she turns to look at him. She studies his face, his slightly rumpled exterior and the way he holds himself- he is obviously embarrassed, but his eyes are bright, and his posture has lost the air of defeat which has been there the last time.
"That's all right, my dear," she says, clearing her throat. "I hope you did talk to him first, though."
Sherlock's face is definitely crimson now. "None of your business," he says, a little too sharp and also not entirely justified, considering. So he quickly adds "But yes, I did." in a softer tone.
Mrs Hudson's expression is unreadable for a moment, then she punches him on the arm with a mischievous little smirk: "Oh, you," she scoffs, but he can tell that she's already forgiven him. If there ever was anything to forgive.
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"She didn't seem surprised," John remarks that evening after Mrs Hudson has gone, and Sherlock does his best to look unconcerned: "Hm?"
"Mrs Hudson. She was a little embarrassed, but not surprised."
"Ever since we have known each other, everyone kept remarking about us acting like a couple," Sherlock replies, "Mrs Hudson hasn't been the exception."
"She never said we're a couple," John huffs.
Sherlock smirks: "But she's been thinking it right from the beginning."
The doctor runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head:"How come the rest of the world knew before we did?"
"They didn't know. They just assumed."
"Fine. How come the rest of the world assumed before we did?"
"Because they saw us together. An advantage we didn't have. We didn't watch ourselves."
John looks incredulous: "But we were there, both of us. Shouldn't we have realized- oh, never mind." He feels tired now, and he's too weary to think about it.
"Well," Sherlock murmurs slowly, "maybe one of us has realized something but didn't act on it."
John stares at him, wide awake again.
Sherlock fidgets a little.
John keeps staring.
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Sherlock Holmes. When we first met you practically lost no time to tell me that you were married to your work. And now you're telling me- what? That you've had a crush on me?"
"Please."
"There's no need to go all posh on me now."
"I'm not."
"Okay, so- tell me. Why didn't you let me know that you changed your mind? It might have made things easier, could have gotten me thinking."
"It might have made everything much more complicated."
"We can't know that."
"But I tried... flirting with you," Sherlock defends himself. "You didn´t bite."
"Excuse me? When did you ever flirt with me?"
"After we met Moriarty for the first time. You said I was being unkind to Molly when I tried to talk her out of dating 'Jim from IT'. Consequently, I was extra nice to you."
John scrunches up his face, trying to recall the day in the lab. "You invited me to examine the shoes. Carl Powers´ shoes."
"Exactly."
"That- that was flirting?"
"Of course. But you didn't notice. So I tried once more- when we were looking at the stars. The location was perfect, but again, to no avail."
John shakes his head: "You´re incredible!"
"I know."
"That wasn't meant as a compliment."
Sherlock looks displeased at that, and John has a hard time not to laugh.
"Seriously, Sherlock, I didn't realize that that was meant to be flirting."
The dismay on Sherlock's face turns into a more thoughtful expression: "Love is blind," he murmurs, eliciting a smile from John,"isn't that a saying?"
"Yes," John nods.
Sherlock gets to his feet, obviously having had enough of this particular conversation: "I need a shower."
They didn't have the chance to wash when Mrs Hudson arrived, and he feels uncomfortably sticky in certain places.
John purses his lips, torn between amusement and incredulity at this latest piece of information, when Sherlock pops his head through the bathroom door: "Aren't you coming?"
"Why is it that you can't be alone in the bathroom these days?" John teases him, fondly.
Sherlock grimaces impatiently: "No, I meant... to shower with me?"
Immediately, John's heart-rate picks up again. "Y-yes," he says, he doesn't have to think about it. "I'd love to."
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Undressing in front of each other still feels strange, but Sherlock suspects that it might never stop doing so. He reaches into the cubicle to turn on the spray, and when he turns back towards John, he finds the doctor standing right next to him, so nearby in fact that he can feel the body-heat radiating off him, and the gaze with which he regards Sherlock is one of pure affection. It's not a conscious decision to close the remaining distance between them, they both move at the same time.
Winding their arms around each other and pressing their bodies together feels marvellous; warm, soft skin and heartbeats. They kiss, gently and tenderly, and Sherlock thinks that everything they had to endure was worth it if only he can keep this, if he can be with John until the end of his days.
Eventually, they step into the cubicle and let the warm water run over them; it's a whole new sensation and feels brilliant.
Understandably, they stay in the shower for a quite a long time.
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On the following morning, Sherlock types up some of his notes in order to hand the file to Mycroft, who is going to have the information cross-checked. After reading through them again, he felt better; there is no way that he has overlooked something. He had prepared well for his task and has been very thorough all the time. There is a list of people who have been operating for Moriarty, and he has seen to it that they are neutralized, to say the least.
He only killed two of them, and it's been self-defense in both cases. Which doesn't make it easier to live with, but he tells himself that it'd either have been him or them. Certainly, neither of them would have had similar qualms.
He can see the faces of all of these people as he alphabetically types their respective names and how they were connected with Moriarty. Some of them were mere dogsbodies, blunt tools. Others were higher up in the hierarchy, designated to make their own choices if need be. Dangerous, all of them.
Sherlock has come so far as 'M' when John leans over his shoulder, looking at the screen: "Moran," he reads, "do I know that name?"
Sherlock is certain that he has never talked about him to John. He pulls up a picture of him on his phone and shows it to John:"One of Moriarty's finest. He did serve in Afghanistan as well."
"Hm. Maybe I've heard of him there." John frowns, not sure whether the man looks familiar or not.
Sherlock's voice is toneless: "He's dead."
He can feel John tense next to him: "How?" he asks.
Sherlock avoids to look at him: "He was shot."
John doesn't reply at first, and he is hesitant to ask: "By you?"
"No. By one of Mycroft's men." Just as he was about to kill me, he silently adds. Moran had nearly outwitted Sherlock, and it still rankled.
For a moment, John puts his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, applying gentle pressure. He knows better than to say anything, and he doesn't have to. For a moment, Sherlock leans an infinitesimal bit closer to him, inhaling that scent again. It's good that he's there.
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John sits down on the sofa with the papers, not wanting to keep Sherlock from his task. He glances at him in regular intervals; the detective is frowning as he concentrates, chewing on his lips.
That evening finds them on the sofa again, Sherlock's head on John's thigh as usual. He is tense and still frowning from time to time, and John, who has switched on the TV, gently massages Sherlock's temple to put him at ease. John has been reading to Sherlock at first, but the detective was too agitated, the book only made it worse. The TV however provides a sufficiently random background noise; ads about cars and dog food aren't something one has to pay any particular attention to.
Eventually, Sherlock relaxes and tries to concentrate on the film which is about to start.
"Boring," he declares after five minutes, closing his eyes. At least he's less inclined to shoot holes in the wall these days.
"It's not boring, it's history," John protests good-naturedly. Hornblower is on, and he quite likes it. He hasn't really been following the story though, since he was distracted by the thought of how Sherlock would look like in one of those 19th-century navy uniforms... get a grip, Watson, he tells himself, but the idea has quite some appeal. Especially if a tricorn's included.
"You're grinning," Sherlock remarks, "but you don't want me to see it."
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"No, I'm not. My expression is completely serious. Sombre even, for reasons you might deduce."
"And inwardly, you are grinning."
"Sherlock-"
"It's hardly my fault that you're so obvious."
"Your eyes aren't even open."
"Is that a confession?"
"Am I in court?"
"Stop answering my questions with questions."
"Stop talking while I'm watching TV."
"Dull."
"I still want to watch it. And hear what's being said."
"I can hear perfectly well what's being said. And it's boring."
"One of these days."
"What?"
"Hm?"
"One of these days what?"
"Never mind. It works better if you don't expect it."
"As in 'We tigers like our food surprised and running'?"
"Don't tell me you have read Calvin and Hobbes."
"Yes, I have."
"You. Mr I-don't-care-how-our-solar-system-works. You have actually read a cartoon."
"It was in the papers. I was bored. And that kid's funny."
John wisely swallows his reply.
Sherlock's hand creeps up to the doctor's thigh and briefly caresses it before coming to rest next to his head, adding to the warm, comfortable weight, and John's own hand leaves Sherlock's temple and finds it, weaving his fingers through Sherlock's.
"You're funny," he says, fondly, and Sherlock, even with his eyes closed, looks rather smug at that.
John thinks Sherlock has dozed off when he stirs once more, opening one eye and peering up at the sitting man:"I'd look rather dashing in one of those uniforms, wouldn't you say?"
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A few hours later, John is startled out of sleep by frantic hands which are scrabbling over his torso, his face. Still drowsy, he reaches up to catch them, gently but firmly holding on to those slender fingers, at the same time saying Sherlock's name. The detective has sat up in his sleep, shaking and disoriented. It takes a while until he stops struggling and John can pull him back down and into his arms. He can feel Sherlock's heartbeat, which slowly decreases from racing to normal, and wonders which kind of demons have chased him out of sleep; very likely the same ones he has been thinking about all day.
When the tremors eventually abate, John is relieved. They will all be glad once everything lies behind them, he thinks, when names like Moriarty and Moran are nothing more than history, the echoes of a fairy tale.
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To Be Continued
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Please leave some feedback.
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Further author's notes:
Thank you for reading. I was wondering about the general lack of feedback- if one reader hadn't commented on each single chapter, there would have been eight reviews altogether after the last update, which is a little strange considering that there are by now 175 people on story alert and 401 people have at least looked at part twelve. Please don't misunderstand me- every single comment is appreciated, and I'm not complaining because some people do take the time to drop a few words after all, but it seems disproportionate. So why is it that people read but don't react, I'd like to know.
You can read about Hornblower as well as Calvin and Hobbes on Wikipedia (links don't work here, sorry). Furthermore, neither of those belong to me.