To Bailey, who hurled insults and curses and terrible, terrible things at me for this chapter; I don't think any of this could have come to fruition without her.
"I'm not quite sure how to react right now, Sherlock," John's voice still cracks when he speaks the other man's name. "I mean, I want to hit you, I want to hug you. I want to walk out of this flat and never come back. I want to stay and not let you out of my sight ever again. I don't know what to do with you, in all honesty."
Sherlock cringes at John's admission, desperately and obscenely wanting John to both hit him and never let him out of his sight. If Sherlock is honest with himself (and he almost always is), he's not sure what to do with John, either. He hasn't thought past getting the doctor to understand.
The detective clears his throat to speak.
"I believe the vernacular term is to take 'baby steps,' John," John chokes out a laugh at the nearly audible quotation marks.
"Yes," he says simply and quietly. "Baby steps."
The pair fall into a strained and anticipatory silence, though neither of them know what they're anticipating.
For the first time since they sat on the couch (now almost four hours ago), Sherlock pries his eyes from John's person and looks about the room.
"I've told you my story," says Sherlock so quietly John has to strain to hear him. "What's yours? I know some of what's happened the last three years but… But not all of it."
Sherlock still isn't looking at John, instead studying the new paths that have been worn in the carpet.
"Nothing happened. Nothing at all." John's tone is tense and his words clipped. Sherlock recognizes this mannerism as John's I am in no way going to talk about this right now mannerism and it makes his chest annoyingly tight. They fall into another awkward silence.
John's right hand is still wrapped around Sherlock's left wrist, pressed against his radial pulse. It steadies Sherlock as much as it does John. As long as John can feel the life in Sherlock's veins, the detective can pretend that everything's all right.
Everything has been said on Sherlock's end. Well, he thinks, everything important. He has not told John he knows about the times John was found by the grave; hasn't told him who truly resides there. John assumes the grave is empty and Sherlock is eager to let him believe that.
I'll save that for another time, when I need a good beating, thinks the younger man.
The ice has melted to soak the tea towel and Sherlock drops the soaking cloth to the exposed floorboards where it slaps wetly against the wood. John assures him that the bruise will only be superficial; that nothing was broken. Sherlock almost wishes something had.
The taller man's free hand travels unconsciously (or is it?) to his face, long fingers tracing the edges of the swelling on his cheekbone and up to where the third punch caught him in the eye. If he hadn't already had the tea towel filled with ice, the eye would certainly be swollen shut.
Sherlock slowly returns his hand to his lap to pick at the seam on his trouser leg.
"What are you going to do now? I mean, Moriarty's scheme to convince the public you were a fraud fell apart maybe two years ago. Your name has been cleared, as well as Lestrade's, and my own for that matter. You can pick up where you left off, right? Consulting the police and being a private detective?" John's tone is split perfectly between hopeful and strangled.
Sherlock has no idea what he's going to do. He could, in theory, pick up exactly where he left off, but there's so much different that it wouldn't really be exactly where he left off, would it? There's a crucial piece of the puzzle that was Sherlock's life before, a centerpiece to the whole thing, and something's (or someone's, rather) come along and run it through a shredder and drowned it. John. John is that crucial piece and now that he's crumpled and jagged and sodden and frayed Sherlock is unsure that he can fit back into the image as soundly as he used to. But, thinks Sherlock, was I not also rung out and shredded and drowned and pick apart piece by sodding piece till I thought there was nothing left but the void? Am I not also a new man? Perhaps we each have changed directly in relation to each other so that, even with our new forms, we still fit together. Perhaps.
Sherlock makes a decision then.
"Let's get dinner. Are you hungry, I'm hungry, let's go to the Chinese down the street, I've missed the shrimp Rangoon," Sherlock hurries through his speech, standing so quickly he gets dizzy. John scrambles up after him, obviously confused.
"Sherlock, what, erm," John is at a loss for words, right hand scratching at the back of his neck. Sherlock recognizes this mannerism as John's there's something I need to say but have no idea how to say it to you mannerism, so he patiently sets his arms at his sides and waits for John to piece together his thoughts.
"Sherlock, I, erm… I haven't left the flat in a, well, a frankly alarming amount of time. I don't know if going out right now is, er, okay. Plus, I've got the damn cane to worry…" John gives a pause then, Sherlock smirking his trademark smirk. The shorter man gapes a bit, hand dropping to his side, and he slowly turns round, eyes on the ground. There, fifteen feet away, on the floor, lies the cane. Abandoned.
John's hands return to his face as he scrubs down it roughly.
"Bugger all, you did it again, didn't you? You bastard, you right sodding git," John says, only minimal heat to his words. The room goes quiet as Sherlock watches John star at the akimbo cane.
"Dinner?" he asks again quietly.
"Er, yeah, let me, erm… Just gimme a second, Sherlock; you fuckin' whirl in here and take up all the space and then whirl out and I've not been exposed to it in a while so I'm a bit out of practice. Christ, bugger, fuck. Just – just give me a second." John pulls his top lip between his teeth and leans over, putting his hands on his knees. He looks ragged and wrecked and when he looks up at Sherlock and there is recognition an acceptance and absolute clarity in his eyes, Sherlock is almost positive he's never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life. Sherlock's breath whooshes out of his chest in a great gust of internal turmoil. John looks away, back at the floor, oblivious to Sherlock's distress.
Sherlock draws a shaky and tough breath in, trying to resolve equilibrium. His brain has shrieked to a halt, gears grinding to a stop. The only thing the detective can focus on is the rise and fall of John's shoulders as he breathes heavily, the aged and not-quite-untanned-yet skin of John's neck where his jumper's pulled down, the wheat-and-honey colors of the doctor's short hair.
"John," Sherlock wheezes, and the doctor finally looks up. Without knowing it, Sherlock has taken three steps toward the older man, stopping not a foot away. John straightens in mild surprise but there is no fear in his dark blue eyes, only mild suspicion and anticipation.
I might have died if John was afraid of me after all this, says a little tiny voice in the back of Sherlock's head that refuses to be shut up, no matter how quiet the rest of his great mind has gone.
"John," whispers Sherlock, and his breath moves John's fringe the tiniest bit. Sherlock's right hand comes up to touch the hairs John's name had moved across the tired man's forehead. The younger man simply touches the hair, not pressing or moving or pushing aside. His mind is still quiet as it's ever been and this time Sherlock is not disturbed by it. His eyes are focussed on his fingers as the run gently over that patch of grey at the front of John's head that he always speculated would be softer than the rest of his hair.
It is.
John's breath has caught in the back of his throat as he watches Sherlock's hand come up to touch. Unlike Sherlock, John's mind begins moving at full capacity, running through all the reason this can't be happening, all the reason this shouldn't be happening, all the reasons John should step back or push Sherlock away or tell him to stop. But John just stops breathing and watches Sherlock's eyes follow his fingers through his fringe. John sees Sherlock's pupils contract to near pin-pricks of black in a disc of seafoam green, then dilate so wide the green becomes a memory. John gasps a bit, his lungs burning from holding his breath for so long.
"John," Sherlock whispers, and John feels his breath carry his name over him like one of those ridiculous silk robes of Sherlock's.
"Sherlock," John says back in an equally quiet whisper and Sherlock's eyes snap to his from his hairline, pupils getting impossibly larger.
John's brain, screaming a thousand reasons for him to stop, alights on one quiet corner of his mind. There's nothing there but a reason. The one reason. That one reason John needs to not stop. That quiet corner has four words written on a slip of old scrap paper. They say because you love him. As he reads those words, the rest of John's mind is quieted and muted and John wants nothing more than to not stop.
So he doesn't.
John pushes his right hand in between Sherlock's jacket and his shirt, winding his way to the small of his back where his compact fingers spread and pull and now it's Sherlock's turn to catch his breath in the back of his throat because this is John and he's pulling not pushing and oh God his lips his lips his lips.
Kissing Sherlock is so unlike kissing anyone John is taken aback. Where soft, supple lips should be there are unrelenting ones, a hint of stubble surrounding them. But John has dreamed of this, wanted this, and dreaming and wanting are nothing compared to the reality of kissing Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock winds the fingers that were just touching into John's short hair and tugs, because he doesn't want John to pull away, not until he's done with him. And Sherlock's fairly certain he won't ever be done with this man.
John's mouth moves under his own and Sherlock is amazed that they hadn't done this before because dear God, John's lips his mouth his tongue and teeth and cheeks and palate and oh God was that me moaning, or was it him? Doesn't matter, doesn't matter, don't stop John don't stop, don't ever stop.
John's mind is quiet but for the repeating of those four words.
Because I love him.
SherlockSherlockSherlock.
Neither want to break the kiss so they breathe sporadically through their noses and Sherlock quite likes that because his nose is pressed against John's cheek and when he breathes in there's nothing but John.
John's hand fists in the expensive fabric at the back of Sherlock's shirt, pulling and pulling and pulling till there isn't a millimetre of space between their chests.
John I missed you so much, John I love you, don't stop, don't ever stop, I'm sorry for hurting you, John, don't stop, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry… Sherlock's mind has begun whirling about, trying to focus on everything at once: John's hand on his back, John's bottom lip in between his, John's heavy breath on his face.
It gets to be too much and though Sherlock wants moremoremore he puts both his hands on John's face and pulls back just far enough that their lips aren't touching. He breathes one, two, three deep breaths, watching John's pulse in his neck and willing himself not to return to those wonderfully swollen and reddened lips.
"John, we have to stop; it's too much," he says finally, closing his eyes tightly. The only thing keeping him from diving back in and devouring John whole is sheer force of will and if he sees John's face, flushed and open with arousal that will will be torn down and thrust aside.
John sighs and it nearly breaks Sherlock.
"Yeah," John says, but unlike before Sherlock can detect no cynicism or skepticism; only agreement.
Neither of them moves back.
Nor are they moving toward each other.
John's hand readjusts against Sherlock's back, loosening its grip; for a split second Sherlock is terrified that he'll be the one to pull back first, but it's unfounded because John's hands simply splays out against his back, thumb running up and down his lower latissimus dorsi. Sherlock presses his forehead to John's and they both sigh.
Sherlock loses track of time, simply standing there in John's arms with John in his.
This, he thinks, this is what I killed for. This is what I spent three years away for. This is John and this is me and this is right.
John holds on to Sherlock even as his consciousness feels like it's floating away. He is torn between bliss and anguish; acceptance and mental upheaval.
Sherlock is here, John thinks, Sherlock is here and he was kissing me and now he's holding me and Christ doesn't it feel right?
"Sherlock?" asks John, a mere murmur. Both their eyes are closed and they remain that way even as John speaks.
Sherlock hums a noise that denotes inquiry.
"What are we going to do?"
"I don't know. I do know that I want to stand here a while longer. I do know that I want Chinese with you. I do know that when we return with the food I know that I want to eat and laugh and just exist with you. I know that I want to watch crap telly till your eyelids droop. I know that I want to herd you to bed with a full belly and a sleepy mind and I know that I want to curl up around you so when you wake up and believe that this was all a dream you can open your eyes and see me and know. I know these things. I do not know that, John. I don't know that. And oddly enough, for right now I am perfectly content to be ignorant of that." His voice is quiet and for someone who claims vehemently that he is a sociopath, Sherlock's words are laced with so much emotion John's tenuous grasp on his own cracks and tears pour freely from his closed lids.
Hearing John's tears rather than seeing them, Sherlock's grip tightens in the doctor's hair and lets his own fragilely-reined emotions go and tears of his own leak out.
The hand that John had rested on Sherlock's hip while they were kissing moves up to the detective's cheek, and John scoffs at the wetness there, wiping it away.
"All right, Sherlock. Those things, that you said… Those things sound good. Let's do that. Let's do that," Sherlock can hear the faint smile in John's voice and he opens his eyes. John's eyes are open already and when Sherlock looks he can see flares of things he has no idea what he's done to deserve directed at him.
"Chinese, crap telly, bed," says John, smile broadening. His thumb curls around one of those gorgeous cheekbones. "Let's do that."