Chapter 13 – In the Morning

The problem with late-night declarations of love made after a near-death experience and immediately followed by cuddly, post-snogging sleep is that eventually you wake up. And whether it's the effect of a well-earned rest or some undetectable wavelength unique to morning light, there's always the moment when you realize what occurred on the previous evening—the ridiculous, amazing, unbelievable, could-that-really-have-happened-how-I-remember evening—and you begin to wonder if it all really was as it seemed.

So when John woke up on the sofa with a sore leg and the taste of Sherlock on his lips and the wave of Oh Yeah flooded over him, it didn't help that he was waking up alone.

John opened his eyes. His arm was still outstretched in the position it had been all night, cradling Sherlock (cradling Sherlock, his brain repeated in insistent echo), and his knees were pulled up, John knew, to accommodate the other man's longer legs, but Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

John sat up, fighting the panic that was threatening to break over him, like dark storm clouds reddening an otherwise peaceful dawn sky. Tentatively, he called out, "Sherlock?"

No answer.

Feeling woozy, John stood, the wrinkles of last-night's clothes rubbing his skin and his sore leg, and stumbled into the kitchen. As he reached for the kettle (just make some tea, make some tea, it'll all make more sense over some tea), a handwritten note resting against the kettle caught his eye.

John, it said, in Sherlock's tight, angular handwriting.

John Watson fancied himself a steady sort of chap, but it took him a good five minutes of standing against the counter, propping himself up with his hands, head bent and knees threatening to give way, before he could summon up the courage to open the note. He wouldn't—he couldn't—not even Sherlock—we'd been so—there's no way—

Luckily, John was, at heart, a steady sort of chap, so he did manage to get ahold of himself and read the note.

John—

My sincerest apologies. I understand, from my studies, that it is not considered affectionate or polite to slip out after an evening such as our previous one. However, I have a few pressing matters to attend to related to the Adler case, and I prefer to handle them early and reserve the rest of the day for handling all matters related to you.

Or at least, whatever matters you permit me to handle. Such as it were. Double entendres, John, I believe fall into the category of Good.

Will pick up lunch on my return. Probably takeaway from Angelo's. Text if you prefer something else.

YSH

John could actually feel his lungs begin to work again as he finished reading the note. All would be all right. Granted, Sherlock wasn't exactly being a great boyfriend (Boyfriend? That didn't sound right. Partner? Better, but not great…) by slipping away, but John knew he'd probably be teaching Sherlock many things about being in a relationship, and this was a relatively minor transgression, especially if Sherlock was going to leave him handwritten notes—not a text, not an email, John noted with some satisfaction.

And what was that signature? YSH? SH he knew, but Y…

The penny dropped and John grinned like a fool. Your Sherlock Holmes.

Now feeling woozy for entirely different reasons, John began once again to prepare his morning tea, thinking all the while about some of the things he would need to teach Sherlock about relationships, including some things that were virgin territory for both of them (John found himself blushing at the word) but that he found himself more than a little eager to explore.

XXX

By the time John's tea kettle began to steam pleasantly, Sherlock, ever quick and efficient, had already completed three of his four morning tasks.

First, he had called upon William Ormstein at his hotel. The American had just been tucking into his hotel's version of a Full English Breakfast (which Sherlock noted, with some disdain, didn't even include baked beans) when the detective had swooped in on him, explained the erasure of the virus from Adler's mobile, assured him of the absolute certainty of the virus' destruction and the safety of his company and reputation, stole a piece of toast, and waited expectantly for the other half of his payment.

Second, he had double-timed it to the currency exchange in Paddington station, changing Ormstein's dollars into pounds. Whether Ormstein had been completely thrilled with the result of the case (and with Adler still at large, he almost certainly wasn't) was immaterial with his bank notes in hand.

Third, he had called Lestrade and given his statement about the prior evening's events, which really meant he berated the DI and his team for not catching Adler, for not arriving on the scene quickly enough, for not bringing enough backup, and especially for not taking better care of John. Sherlock hung up on the DI's words of protest—this was not the conversation that concerned him.

So finally, he found himself in a second rate coffee shop, a cup of tea steeping well beyond the point of potability in front of him untouched, as he awaited the individual that did concern him. And with the tap, tap of a full-sized umbrella hitting the floor tiles at the front of the shop, Sherlock knew that individual had arrived.

"Mycroft," he said by way of greeting as his brother sat down across from him.

"Good morning, Sherlock. I was most intrigued by the urgent nature of your text. What can I do for you?" Mycroft waved a finger at the waitress, ordered himself an Earl Grey, and looked across the table at Sherlock.

Sherlock was glaring at him.

"Call it off, Mycroft."

Mycroft blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Call it off. I don't want it anymore, I'm done. Call it off."

Mycroft let out a long breath. "I'm afraid it's not that simple, Sherlock."

Sherlock banged a fist down on the table, rattling his teacup and shocking a few nearby patrons into momentary silence. "I know bloody well that so much as a cough from you can start wars in foreign countries most people can't even spell. You're telling me you can't call off surveillance on one man?"

"Sherlock, if you'd listen to me…"

"Bloody useless in any case. Where were your men last night when the man you swore to protect was being held at gunpoint?"

"Sherlock…"

"What's the point of even having a Secret Service if they're that inept? I take it back, Mycroft, I don't owe you any favors after the shoddy job you've—"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft did not so much shout as reverberate Sherlock's name across the coffee shop. The younger man, finally, held up his tirade.

Mycroft inhaled. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Sherlock. My men couldn't be there in the alley last night because they were protecting John. Protecting you and John, actually. From the dozen or so assailants that began moving toward your position when Irene Adler's phone blinked out."

It was Sherlock's turn to inhale. "Assailants?"

Mycroft nodded. "That's also how Adler was able to get away. Some sort of drop-dead, failsafe plan. We were barely able to stay ahead of them, Sherlock, they're good."

Sherlock stared down into his ever-darkening tea. "I don't understand. We've been watching so closely, looking for any signs…"

Mycroft grimaced as the waitress placed his tea in front of him. "He's exceptional, Sherlock. He may even be better than you. And we both know you're not at your best right now. "

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. As much as he didn't want to hear what Mycroft was saying, it was probably true. Moriarty had outmaneuvered him utterly, and he'd been so distracted that he'd missed it completely. It was all just too much—a new case, new feelings, keeping secrets, watching out for his archenemy—even for Sherlock Holmes, it had been just one thing too many.

As if reading his mind, Mycroft continued. "It's all just too much for one person, Sherlock, even if that person is you." He sipped his tea. "Let us take over the Adler case, and Moriarty too, for a while. I'm going to suggest some time away from London, for you and for John."

"Time away…?"

"Far too many people in London want you dead even without Moriarty's influence. Now that he's resurgent, I'm not confident that the Yard, the government, or anyone can watch you thoroughly in London."

"I told you, Mycroft, I don't want anyone watching us, not anymore—"

"My dear brother, don't you see it's too late for that?"

Mycroft watched Sherlock's features fall as the reality sunk in. "After what happened last night, I couldn't call off the surveillance if I wanted to. John would be dead within the hour."

Quite involuntarily, Sherlock gasped in pain as if stabbed and a hand flew to his heart.

"And you'd probably be dead in five." Mycroft finished, sipping his tea and sitting back in his chair.

Sherlock dropped his head into his hands and gripped his hair with his fingers. "Mycroft, things have changed. I don't know how it happened but things have changed. John—John and I—" he glanced up, willing the other man to understand without words.

Mycroft, as was his wont, did. His eyes widened slightly. "Oh, I see." He allowed himself a small smile. "That didn't take long. It's so very petty and fraternal to say I told you so, but-"

Sherlock wasn't listening; he was flooded at the same time with the warm loveliness of John and the ice-cold misery of the situation before him. He shook his head, trying to clear it. "He trusts me, Mycroft. He trusts me. And I've—I'm—" Sherlock shook his head slowly.

"If you tell him the truth, you'd no longer be lying to him," Mycroft offered.

Sherlock winced. "No, no, no, I can't. He'll never forgive me. And we've only just—" Sherlock stopped and ran a finger across his lips absently.

"I'm sorry, then, Sherlock. This is one puzzle I cannot help you with. I assure you that the surveillance will remain both thorough and completely discrete. But it will have to remain, there is no other option." He finished his tea and stood. "Get out of London for a time, Sherlock," he said, resting a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Take John away for a bit. Clear your mind. It'd be best for everyone."

Sherlock took a deep breath, then raised his head to say something, but Mycroft had already gone.

XXX

John was just putting the finishing touches on his letter of resignation from the clinic (which he would be mailing in; he was quite sure he could never look Sarah in the face, ever again) when he heard footfalls on the stairs.

He turned and found Sherlock standing in the doorway. He looked tense, somehow hesitant. They regarded each other for a moment.

"Hi, Sherlock," John said.

"Hello, John."

"How was Angelo's?"

Sherlock blinked. "I forgot the takeaway," he said as he himself realized his error.

John smiled. "Yeah, I thought you might." He stood and gestured to the kitchen table.

Sherlock turned. Two takeaway cartons sat facing each other, one filled with spaghetti and meatballs (John's favorite), the other with veal piccata and lemon rice (Sherlock's favorite, when Sherlock was eating). A bottle of sparkling water sat between them and a candle (where had John found a useable candle in the flat?) was throwing a warm light across the whole scene.

John looked from Sherlock to the table and back again. "Had to try a candle. I've been told it's more romantic." As Sherlock stared at the meal display in front of him, John continued, babbling a little, nervously. "So, how was your morning? Did you finish everything you wanted to do? I'll be honest, I was a little surprised when you weren't here, but thanks for leaving the note, it really helped to—"

And in a blur of motion, Sherlock was on him and he was wrapped in Sherlock's arms and Sherlock was kissing him so deeply, so truly, so much so much so MUCH and whispering I love you and I'm sorry and I love you and I'm sorry and John, John, John. John could not ever remember being kissed this way before, as if the other person would gladly drown within you if it meant being close to you forever more. Sherlock was not an experienced kisser, John was learning, but that did not mean he couldn't be a passionate one, and as Sherlock kissed him again and breathed another I'm sorry, John staggered back into his chair, utterly unable to stand.

Sherlock knelt in front of him as he tried to form words. "Sherlock—wow, um, wow—Sherlock, what are you so sorry for? This morning? I told you, it's fine." He rested a hand on Sherlock's hair as the other man looked up at him. "We're fine, Sherlock, I promise. Trust me."

Something seemed to go soft inside the detective at those words, but Sherlock simply breathed and leaned up to kiss John again, more softly this time, more of a gentle warm fluttery floating instead of desperate clinging drowning. John found he liked both equally well. In fact, he liked them so much and found Sherlock was such a quick study on the many types of kisses that it was only the rumbling in his stomach that eventually forced him to break them apart, slowly.

"Veal is no good cold, Sherlock," he said, smiling into grey eyes.

"Excellent observation, John," Sherlock replied, gazing into brown ones.

"Shall we, then?"

"After you."

John stood and walked toward the table. Sherlock watched him from behind and was suddenly seized by an immensely overwhelming feeling of warmth and protection and comfort and safety and hope and light and wonder. And though the conversation with Mycroft was still very much on his mind, right now all that mattered was John and home. It was a feeling. And it was so, so good.

"John?"

John turned.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. Finally, the taller man managed. "I love you, John Watson."

John started a little, and smiled. "Yes, so you've been saying."

Sherlock continued, a bemused expression on his face. "Yes, I know. I just realized…I don't think I've ever really understood it before." He blinked. "And you love me too?" It was a half-statement, half-question. You, you miracle, John Watson, you feel for me what I'm feeling right now?

John grinned. "I love you too, Sherlock Holmes." He took Sherlock's hand. And neither let go for the rest of the meal, or the rest of the afternoon, and wouldn't, if Sherlock had anything to say about it, for the rest of their lives.

And that's that, for the first story anyway!

I really hope you all enjoyed it. Many of the loose threads (Adler's escape, the surveillance, Sherlock's honesty issues) will come back in future stories. The second one is still very much in-progress, so it probably won't be up for a while, but it will be (loosely) based on the concept of the Hound of the Baskervilles. What happens when S/J get out of London and encounter a series of murders of seemingly-supernatural origin? And what bumps and bruises might their fledgling relationship take along the way? Coming soon...