They meet at home.
"Are you here?" John calls, pushing the door of 221B closed behind him with his foot, juggling his keys in one hand and stack of paperwork in the other.
A quiet grunt from the kitchen serves as greeting.
"Are you sulking?" John asks, aware that the grunt can hear him. He busies himself automatically as he moves across the room: paperwork on the coffee table, keys on the shelf by the door, union jack pillow rehomed from floor to chair, haphazard pile of books retrieved from the carpet, three empty tea mugs rescued from mysteriously common hiding places. As he carries them through to the kitchen he finds Sherlock sitting at the table, peering into his microscope.
"You are sulking." John tells him, vaguely amused.
Sherlock grunts again.
John ignores it and moves over the sink, running water into the empty mugs to rinse them.
"The radio silence gave you away." John continues conversationally. "Amazing what I can get done at the surgery without my phone going off every five minutes." He shuts off the water, "No messages since lunchtime, I wondered if you might have a case."
Sherlock says nothing. John knows better than to expect a response from stating the obvious.
"What are you working on?" John asks directly instead, moving over and pressing his hand against the back of Sherlock's neck gently. Sherlock tenses, but doesn't respond.
John sighs, the last of his arsenal exhausted.
"Well, when you decide you want to talk to me I'll be out there." John moves away, unconcerned. "Got some pages from my publisher to go over," He continues, "Apparently they're not 'emotive' enough. Her word. Can you believe that? Sometimes I think you're rubbing off on me…"
"There's beer in the fridge." Sherlock cuts in through the chatter.
John stops.
"I'm sorry?" John asks, turning to look at him.
"Beer, in the fridge." Sherlock repeats, not looking up.
"You bought beer?"
"You bought beer, there are a few left."
"And you're telling me that because?"
"You often have a beer when you're editing." Sherlock's words are calm; he's still peering through the microscope.
John studies him for a moment, wondering when the simple idea of someone noticing your habits had become so touching.
"Thanks," John says, smiling and moving forward to the fridge, "I think I will." He retrieves a bottle and opens it, before turning back toward the sitting room. "Probably what I need if they want me to be more 'emotional'."
Minutes later and he's sitting back in his chair, taking his first pull on his beer as he looks over the discarded papers.
"Your receptionist is an idiot."
A voice from the kitchen.
John pauses.
"Is that what this is?" John calls back, referring to the sulk.
The kitchen is silent in response.
John suppresses a smile, goes back to his paperwork.
A few minutes pass before a figure appears around the doorway.
"She threw me out." Sherlock tells him.
"That she did." John is still looking pointedly at the sheet of paper in front of him without reading a word. He's using it to hide his smile.
"She wouldn't let me see you."
"They don't really encourage personal visits," John doesn't qualify that they don't encourage personal visits from Sherlock, not since the time he took it upon himself to diagnose the waiting room while John was busy with a patient.
"But it was important."
"I think you and she have differing definitions of important," John replies, dropping the papers and looking up at Sherlock across the room. He still stands on the threshold, leaning his long frame against the doorway; dark suit and John's favourite shirt.
"What did you want anyway?" John asks,
"I wanted you."
"What for?"
Sherlock doesn't answer.
"I was at work." John says, stating the obvious again.
"I know,"
"Well it can't have been all that important," John continues, "Else you would have text."
Sherlock's gaze has shifted.
"But you are right about the receptionist." John continues, taking a drink from his beer and sitting back. "She is a bit of an idiot. She didn't even mention you'd been there, Mrs Stevens had to tell me instead."
"Mrs Stevens?" Sherlock asks, looking at him again.
"Patient." John smiles "You made quite an impression on her. I think she described you as my ''andsome fella'" John mimics her accent,
Sherlock's mouth quirks in a smile.
"So," John starts, glad he's managed to raise that smile. "How exactly did my idiot receptionist manage to throw you out? Tougher souls than her have tried and failed."
"She threatened your job," Sherlock replies succinctly.
"She doesn't have the power to fire me."
"Dr Osborne does."
John looks at him quizzically, then something occurs to him.
"They're not?" He asks,
"They are." Sherlock replies.
Another pause.
"Well, good for Dr Osborne I guess." John has a new respect for the man. "I didn't know he had it in him."
"It's unacceptable that such a person has that kind of power over you." Sherlock says in response.
"You're the only person allowed to have that kind of power over me?" John asks calmly,
"No,"
John just regards him with a smile.
"I understand that you wish to continue with this doctor business…" Sherlock continues, John's smile dies.
"It's not doctor 'business'." He cuts in, Sherlock may be succeeding in tugging at his good mood. "We've been through this before. I am a doctor."
"Yes."
"I will continue to be a doctor."
"Yes."
"Even while I am, everything I am with you."
"But it's unacceptable that you cannot do that on your own terms." Sherlock says. He's still standing in the doorway, too far away.
"You know why I can't." John responds.
"This way is easier?" Sherlock provides, parroting words that have been spoken in similar conversations previously.
"Yes, this way is easier. If I were my own boss it would mean more responsibility, more time. This way I can just, call in sick or something when you need me on a case."
"We've been through this before." Sherlock repeats John's earlier statement.
"Then why go through it again?"
"Because it's still unacceptable. They don't realise your value."
"And you do?" John asks,
"Of course."
To a casual observer this might not seem like a particularly poignant statement. To John, who can read this man so well, who has read this man for over thirty years, it may as well be a declaration of unending adoration.
"Why are you all the way over there?" John says slowly in response, putting his beer down on the table in front of him so he can hold out his hand.
Sherlock regards him levelly for a few moments, eyes narrowed, before he slowly steps forward and, ignoring the hand John has offered him, sits down in front of him on the coffee table. On top of the papers. John can't help but notice how close his left elbow comes from brushing against the beer bottle beside him.
John sighs, watching the man in front of him with newly remembered affection and using his lifted hand to touch that familiar face. The years have marked it: lines across his expressive forehead and around those clear blue eyes, his dark hair worn shorter now to mask the creep of his hairline, the black curls shot with grey.
The expression is still the same however, nothing will change that, a kind of knowledge about the eyes, as if he's forever deducing. John recognises it as the same one he'd worn the day they'd met, all those years ago in St Bart's and then again, in this room, when he'd presented the surroundings to John with pride. It had even made an appearance in the seconds before their first kiss, right there, on that sofa. John knows it better than he knows the expression he sees every morning in the mirror.
"Why are we going through all this again?" John asks him finally, emerging from his study of the memories he finds etched into familiar features.
"I'm tired." Sherlock says.
And John is reminded that this man can always surprise him.
"You are?" John asks.
"Yes." Sherlock says with a sigh. He tips his face forward slowly to John, resting their foreheads together, John has to drop his hand from his cheek, "I'm tired of people not understanding your worth." He starts slowly, his breath against John's face. "I'm tired of idiot receptionists. I'm tired of Doctor Osborne,"
"Not more than I am," John chuckles; he's closed his eyes, savouring Sherlock's deep voice.
"And I'm tired of the yarders." Sherlock continues, heavily, "I'm tired of being the freak."
"They've not called you that in years."
"But that is still how they see me."
"Has something happened?" John asks,
"No."
"Well then where is this coming from?"
"I've been contemplating it a while."
"Contemplating what?" John draws back.
"That this is a young man's game John," Sherlock's eyes are full of an unidentifiable emotion, "I'm getting tired of playing it."
They stop, studying each other. Sherlock's words hang in the air between them.
"What exactly are you saying?" John asks, sensing that this isn't going to be the same as all the other times they've started this conversation.
"I think it's time I retired." Sherlock says, confirming John's suspicion.
"That's a big thing to say," John says with wonder.
"Yes."
"I mean," John starts, pauses, starts again: "What does that even mean?"
"It means stopping." Sherlock says calmly. "Walking away. Being less tired."
"But…" John starts.
"Somewhere quieter."
"Leaving London?"
"Somewhere where you can be your own boss, if you wish. Somewhere where that won't mean too much work."
"Where?" John rather means it as a rhetorical question.
"Sussex."
John blinks.
"I didn't expect you to be so specific." John says.
"You didn't?"
"I'm not sure why I didn't," John's smile has reappeared for a moment.
Then he stops again, contemplating what they're saying.
"But the work?" John asks. The biggest question he can think of.
"The work is done." Sherlock says intensely.
"That wasn't what you said last week."
"Ignore what I said."
"Can I have that in writing?" John cuts in lightly.
Sherlock huffs out a laugh.
"If you like."
John smiles, studies the face of the man before him.
"You've really thought this through," John says in admiration, he can't decide whether or not it is a question.
"Yes." Sherlock part answers, part confirms, "I've been thinking about it for a long time."
"How long?"
"Five years."
Stunned, John can't reply.
"Perhaps longer," Sherlock qualifies, taking his time over the words, "Twenty years, thirty. It has always been something I considered for our future." Sherlock's eyes have become grave; he sits forward a little to shorten the space between them. "Before you I had thought that all I could ever live for was the work. What it made me and what I became when I was doing it. You changed that. You taught me what it was to be more than that."
This time it is Sherlock that lifts his hand to John's face. John wonders whether he can remember a time when Sherlock has been this expressive to him; he's stilled in the face of it, unable and unwilling to offer anything in response.
"I love you." Sherlock says slowly. "Back then that is more than I ever would have thought possible." Sherlock's thumb brushes John's cheek, "And the work is done." He continues, "I have more than that to live for now."
If John didn't know better he would wonder whether the sore feeling in the back of his throat was the threat of tears. The only thing John can think of to do against it is to lean forward and touch their lips together.
"You're an idiot." John says as he pulls away.
Sherlock's eyes go wide.
"How long have you been working up to that?" John asks.
Sherlock clears his throat a little, drops his eyes: "Some time."
"Were you worried I wasn't going to agree with you?" John asks, scanning Sherlock's face, "About retiring?"
"No…" Sherlock says in a way that makes it sound he means the opposite.
"You got yourself all worked up and thought the only way you could convince me would be some big emotional speech…"
"Did it work?"
"It didn't need to, you idiot." John laughs and bridges the gap between them again. The practised meeting of lips. After all this time Sherlock still tastes like something beautiful.
"I'm in." John says, breaking apart only far enough to form the words, his lips brushing Sherlock's as he says them. "I always have been. I always will be. Call me and I will follow."
"Can I have that in writing?" Sherlock smirks, pulling back fractionally.
"No." John laughs, looking up at him. "I love you, you great genius. I said it first. I'll say it last."
"You will not let me forget that, will you?"
"Never."
This time there is a grin on John's face as he closes the gap between them, mouths fitting together with tenderness and familiarity. That remembered passion bubbling just under the surface.
"So you do agree?" Sherlock asks as he pulls away, uncharacteristic uncertainty flashing across his pale eyes.
"Of course I do." John replies with a smile.
"You seemed surprised when I brought it up."
"I was surprised you were able to come to that conclusion on your own."
"I'm often coming to conclusions on my own."
"Emotional ones?" John asks
"I take your point." Sherlock nods.
"If I'd thought the work wasn't keeping you here I probably would have suggested it myself."
"You would?"
"Yes. And not just to get away from Dr Osborne."
"That reason would be sufficient in isolation." Sherlock agrees, "The man is insufferable."
"Almost as insufferable as the woman he's sleeping with."
"Who has the most peculiar taste in hair colour."
"Yes," John says quickly, before changing the subject back: "So when… do we…?"
"As soon as we can make the arrangements." Sherlock replies assuredly.
"You mean you haven't already made them?"
"Not yet," Sherlock replies, "I needed to ensure that you were in agreement."
"Has that ever stopped you before?" John asks with a smile.
"Yes."
"When?"
"When I asked you to marry me."
"Oh," John smiles, "Yes, good point."
"I am full of them."
"You're often full of something…" John says playfully and Sherlock can only smirk.
John stops, studying the man in front of him, a smile on his lips. He's imagining the times to come, the life that stretches out ahead of them: of stillness and Sussex and summer afternoons. Days at the side of this incredible, confusing, thrilling figure of a man, the wonders that have become his life these last thirty years.
He sighs as the memories threaten to overwhelm him, closing his eyes to savour them.
"This isn't real is it?" John asks finally, painfully.
There is no response.
"What you're saying?" John clarifies, that dreadful knowledge pooling acidly in the bottom of his stomach. "It's not happening." This time it's not a question.
He opens his eyes, looking back at the figure sitting silently before him. Sherlock is staring straight ahead, focusing on something over John's shoulder, pale eyes open but unseeing.
"I want this." John tells him, his voice breaking slightly as he continues: "I want this and it's not happening."
Silence again.
"Say something Sherlock." John asks, this time with a note of desperation.
"John." Sherlock says his name.
John swallows, fear rising as the strangeness of Sherlock's voice only confirms what he already knows.
"Can you hear me?" Sherlock continues, too loud, the words are coming from somewhere else in the room.
John stands. Tripping a few paces away, eyes fixed on the figure sitting on the familiar coffee table, surrounded by the mundane. Scaring him.
"John," Sherlock says again, but doesn't. This time his mouth doesn't move.
"What's happening?" John asks him. His voice has risen now, sharp with fear.
"You need to calm down." A voice, Sherlock's voice. Not this Sherlock.
"This isn't really happening, you're not really here. I'm not really here."
"John," Sherlock doesn't say his name again.
"Why can't this be real?" John asks him desperately. "I don't understand! You're here, and this has happened. I remember it. You came to the surgery, they threw you out, Mrs Stevens told me you were there. We're moving to Sussex. How can I know that and still know that this isn't real?"
"John,"
"We sit here and talk and make jokes and plan but it's not real. It keeps happening, over and over and I see it. Please. Please explain this to me, for the love of God, explain it to me, Sherlock." John is pleading now, "This isn't happening and I want it to. I love you. Why aren't you there?!"
"John," The figure on the table suddenly turns to look at him, voice softer, the motion of his lips matching the word.
"Sherlock?" John asks him, surprised.
"John, what's wrong?" From two paces away John watches the light come back on in Sherlock's eyes, concern growing in their deep blue pools as they watch the obvious fear in John's face.
John crumples in the face of it.
He steps forward, and with effort drops to his knees in front of the man he loves, burying his head in his lap.
Long fingers find their way to the back of John's neck, carding through the short hair there.
And John forgets. He forgets what he knows, and holds on.
Sigh
My angst gets fluffy and my fluff gets angsty. Don't worry, there's still some angst-fluff to balance this out close on the horizon.
Thanks to all have read and reviewed so far, I am so glad you're enjoying this.
In response to some (very lovely) requests to do so I am attempting to update more often. Please continue to let me know what you think! Feedback is the air I breathe.
Q x