Chapter 49
"Ah, good, you're still here. John, we need your..." Lestrade's voice faded away as his gaze went from John, who was looking dishevelled and recovering his breath, to Sherlock, whose shirt was a mess.
Sherlock pulled his coat closed and turned away, blushing.
"What happened?" Lestrade frowned.
"You don't want to know," John said quickly. "What did you say you need?"
"Er, your gun. Because we heard a shot - well." Clearly it was true that Lestrade didn't want to know, because he was also blushing and obviously wanted to get away from them as soon as he could.
John picked his gun up from the ground, where it had fallen unnoticed at some point, and handed it to Lestrade. "There you go. Do we have to give statements or anything?"
"No, no, you can go."
John wasn't so sure if he was glad they weren't needed. If Lestrade left them, the only option was talking to Sherlock, and what would he say?
Sherlock grunted a "Bye" and hurried off. He silently cursed himself. He was running away again. But he just couldn't face John. It was all he could do not to just bolt.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, wait." John ran after him and took his arm. "We really need to talk. Maybe- maybe not now, but you can't go back to that horrid flat."
Sherlock looked at John, and very nearly kissed him again. He sighed. "I'm sorry," he muttered, looking away. "I shouldn't have..."
"No, it's not your fault. Just... Just come home, okay? We'll each sleep in our own bedrooms and all that, but please."
Sherlock hesitated, torn between the wish to respect John by keeping his distance and the need to be close to him, and maybe even for one night feel a sense of 'home'.
He nodded. "Okay."
"Thank you," John said, doing all he could not to take Sherlock's hand. "We'll- we'll find a cab, right? Is there something you need to pick up from that flat?"
Sherlock shook his head. "I still have some of my old clothes and things back at Baker Street. It will do fine for tonight." He hesitated. "Unless you've packed my things away of course..."
"Uhm, no. I haven't really been in our- your room. Everything's still there."
Sherlock frowned. Had John resented him that much, that he couldn't even bear to go into the room they had shared? To touch Sherlock's things? But no. John wasn't like that. It must be something else.
"Thank you," he said and looked straight at John. He tried a small smile.
John shrugged. They had to move, or he was going to hug Sherlock and who knew what would come from that. He started walking out of the park, hoping a cab would pass them soon.
Sherlock followed, trying not to look too much at John. His shirt was beginning to feel cold and sticky, but for some reason it didn't really bother him. Even if it had been a horrible mistake, it had also been mindblowingly wonderful, and he would always treasure it. It felt good to have gotten one last chance to be with John. That the last thing they shared would not be that horrible fight but rather this... This, whatever it had been. He didn't even realise that a grin was spreading across his face as the events replayed themselves in his mind.
The cab ride home passed mostly in silence. John was absorbed in his thoughts, even though it didn't bring him closer to knowing what to do. He had wanted tonight to end like this, with Sherlock coming back to the flat as his friend - but well, this wasn't exactly friendly, was it? Friends didn't shag each other up against a tree. But oh, it had been good. Amazing. He couldn't quite remember if he had said that out loud.
Still, he couldn't know where they stood now. Sherlock had agreed to accompany him, but perhaps that was only for one night, and he couldn't bear the thought.
Sherlock searched around for something to say. Something causal. Something that wasn't: 'I love you so much and I can't live without you and I want you to take me right here and now.' But nothing occurred to him, so he just pretended to look out the window, studying John's reflection in the glass.
...
"Do you want tea?" John asked as soon as they were up in the flat.
Sherlock nodded. "Yes, thank you," he said, glancing around. It felt like he'd been here only yesterday and at the same time, it seemed a lifetime since they had been together.
While John was waiting for the kettle, a thought struck him. "I'll give you some clean sheets," he said. "Probably the ones on your bed aren't that fresh, after all this time. Feel free to take a shower." God, it felt so strange to say that to Sherlock; he bloody lived here!
"No," Sherlock took a step forward. "I'll change the sheets." He felt awful putting John to so much trouble after what he'd done to him. Well, okay, with him. John had certainly not minded at the time. But though it had been amazing, it hadn't been right. They shouldn't do things like that. They couldn't. Or how could they ever move on? Because that was what they were doing. Wasn't it?
"Okay," John nodded. Normally he would have asked if Sherlock was actually capable of doing that, as a joke, but he just didn't feel ready to joke with him now. Things felt unnaturally awkward between them again, and all he wanted, was to go to his own bed, where he would have the time to think things over, and more importantly, to think of a way to solve this.
Sherlock stood a moment longer watching John. Then he pulled himself together and went to the room that had once been his. And for a few glorious months, his and John's. He looked at the bed. Their bed. And then it all came flooding back. He gasped and sank to his knees, completely overwhelmed.
John busied himself with the tea a little longer. After a moment, it dawned on him that perhaps Sherlock wasn't planning to come back to share a cup. Perhaps he should take his own up to his bedroom - or was that too much like running away? Only then, he realized that there hadn't been a sound in thei- Sherlock's bedroom either. A little worried, he knocked on the door. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"
Sherlock had slumped forward, his head resting on the bed. His mind must be playing tricks on him, because he was convinced he could still detect John's scent there. Time seemed to stand still. When he heard John's voice he jerked back. Still sitting on the floor he called out. "Yes, everything's fine." He tried to sound calm, but he couldn't quite control the choked quality that had seeped into his voice.
John frowned, but he decided it was better to believe Sherlock. The other probably needed a moment alone as well, and he couldn't trust himself going in there. "I'll be upstairs, okay?"
"Okay," Sherlock said and closed his eyes as he heard his voice crack. He laid his head down again. He should not have come here. It only made everything that much worse. How was he supposed to handle this?
John sighed, resting his hand against the door before he went up the stairs.
Sherlock sat there for a very long time, trying to think, to figure out what to do. He considered leaving. But he couldn't face it. He considered crawling into bed and trying to sleep, but the bed did smell like John and he couldn't handle changing the sheets. He thought about going to the sofa and sleeping there, like so often before.
It took surprisingly little time for John to fall asleep. Despite everything he had wanted to think through, being tired and of course the wonderful, though forbidden, shag in the park did wonders to lull him. As soon as he was lying comfortably, he drifted off, with nothing on his mind but Sherlock, almost feeling the other man's warmth in his dreams.
Finally Sherlock got to his feet. He found old pyjamas in the bottom drawer and put it on. He really should take a shower, but he just couldn't be bothered right now. He went into the sitting room and was about to lie down on the sofa when he felt a sudden desperate urge to just see John. To assure himself that he was really there. In the same building as Sherlock. In what used to be their home.
As quietly as possible, he walked up the stairs and opened John's door, just enough to peer in. There he was, already asleep. Sherlock stood for a long time just watching him. Then he realised that he, without thinking, had stepped into the room and was standing at the foot of the bed. Knowing that it was a very bad idea, he carefully sat on the bed. He just couldn't take his eyes off John. He looked so peaceful. Almost happy. Sherlock remembered all the times he had woken up in John's arms. Every single blissfully lazy morning when they had shared smiles and kisses before starting the day. His body ached at the memory of John next to him.
John snored softly and Sherlock smiled. He knew John's sleep pattern by heart. This was the deepest stage. Nothing, short of the house blowing up, could wake him right now. And then an idea, a foolish, selfish, almost dangerous idea, occurred to him. Carefully he lifted the covers and settled next to John, snuggling against him. He placed his arm around John's chest and buried his nose in his soft hair. He sighed and closed his eyes. Just for a moment, he thought. For a few short minutes he would lie here and remember and then he would leave. Leave the room, leave Baker Street and leave John to get on with his life. In just a moment.
