HYPNAGOGIC
adjective; relating to the state immediately before falling asleep.
Dear God what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring!
For some reason, these words stood out to John Watson as he laid awake in his new flat, the ambient sounds of London fading as the words swirled around in his mind like water. He hadn't had the time to think upon them before, but now that all was quiet and still for the first time in a few days, the words came back to haunt him in a way he didn't quite understand.
The week had been...eventful, to say the least (exhilarating, headache-inducing and wild were all good phrases to use as well), and it all stemmed from Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective (only one in the world), deductive genius, and part-time scientist (who else would keep eyes in the fucking microwave), the man was also blunt to a fault, possibly sociopathic, and incredibly arrogant. Sherlock Holmes had little regard for social niceties, considered his older brother (who came off as extremely melodramatic with his cameras and umbrella) his archenemy, and seemed to thrive off of making people, i.e. police, feel as stupid and inadequate as possible.
He was also visually striking, with a bony appearance and lean grace that John could never hope to possess. Sherlock cut an imposing and unnecessarily dramatic figure in his ever-present trench coat, the dark colors he tended to wear bringing out the translucent quality to his skin and the paleness of his eyes. There were times, in the gray, grim surroundings of London that he'd attracted quick second glances as he strolled past, all long legs and trailing coat and a motive powering his stride that John never learned till later, or sometimes never. John couldn't blame the people that stared. Sherlock exuded a sense of purpose no one could begin to understand and, dare he say it, attraction, that seemed to tug people towards him before they invariably scuttled away as if burned by his harsh tongue and uncaring demeanor.
Sherlock Holmes looked just as he acted; grandiose and unearthly, like an untouchable god of ice and stone sent to dwell amongst mortals as some sort of divine punishment. Sometimes when John looked at him, he could imagine the man as one of those old marble statues of ancient days long past. With his cherubic curls, nimble fingers, and pale skin, it wasn't too far off the mark.
It must be so boring!
John shifted uneasily in his bed. Besides the insult of Sherlock's words, there had been something else within the statement, something that John couldn't quite make out. Perhaps it was the way he'd fired it off as if he'd said it and some iteration of it a million times (most likely), or the way his icy eyes had flashed just for a second with something other than irritation at the 'idiots' around him (Sherlock's word, not his). Maybe it was because, with those words, John had begun to understand the intricacies of the whirlwind he'd been caught up in from the moment he'd been introduced to Sherlock Holmes and the true depths of the man. There was more to him than clever little deductions made from his clothes or the way he stood at St. Bart's where they'd first met; Those sorts of conclusions were parlor tricks compared to what the man was truly capable of, and Sherlock knew it. Sherlock was different, and knew he was different, in a class separate from all others, and the man reveled in his genius and ability to be quick and sharp and cold and come off as- as a monster.
Did Sherlock Holmes know some saw him as a monster? Did he care?
Dear God what is it like in your funny little brains?
John blinked at the ceiling, the nagging sensation dissipating a bit as the question was formulated in his wired mind. His eyes were beginning to droop, but now that he'd found some kind of thought process, he wasn't going to let it go yet. The red dials of his clock said 3:48 A.M, but his mind said, what is it like in your funny little brains? and so he tugged the sheets off of his legs with a swoop that seemed too loud in his quiet room. He could just make out the outline of his bare legs through the orange-yellow light of the streetlamps filtering through his curtains, and a second later the chill crept up his skin and made him shiver. This would keep John awake for now as he muddled his way through the puzzle before him.
Sherlock was arrogant yes, and cruel at times, though that seemed to stem (a bit) less from the man's actual desire to be cruel and more from him being truly unknowing of how human things like feelings and decorum worked. John didn't think he'd imagined the brief flits of confusion he'd see on the man's face at times when speaking with people, or the blank expression he defaulted to when people grew snappish with him. His mind was an analytical one, and John, while the man's nature had caught him off guard and stung him a bit in the beginning (it's been barely a week, wasn't he still in the beginning?), could understand that much. John was no genius, but he knew that Sherlock's incredible mind and skillset came with a price. Things such as social pleasantries probably had no room in that overstuffed brain of his (could a god's brain become overstuffed?), and so John didn't begrudge him that. Maybe it was because he saw Sherlock's mannerisms as quirky more than anything now that they shared a flat, but John didn't see him as a monster. Yes, he tried to curb the man's more capricious habits and particularly sharp retorts, but at the end of the day, John felt he could get used to the skull on the mantle Sherlock fancied chatting with at times and the way the man folded himself into chairs on his haunches like a child.
He wasn't sure about the eyes in the microwave yet, or the hands in the fridge and all the chemicals on the dining table that John felt might start a fire at some point, but John wasn't squeamish, and he could always talk to Sherlock about the chemicals. He was sure he could, with time and every brain cell he possessed, reason with the man a bit. John had reasoned with many more difficult people in his life after all.
And God, it sounded strange thinking it, but John really didn't mind much. There was something to the eccentricities and volatility of Sherlock Holmes that reminded John of his time serving in Afghanistan. It had been gritty and painful (getting shot was never a very pleasant experience), but John had also felt energized and alive in the fight, the buzz of combat something he'd been almost lost without when he'd come back to London, limping from a psychosomatic wound and unsure of what to do. There had been no strict orders to follow contrasted by the chaos of battle; just a sea of concrete and steel and his skin itching as he blended back into the crowd. He had tried to let it all go, to do what the therapist told him, but it just didn't work. Normal wasn't right anymore and normal was boring.
Dear God what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring!
The fingers John had been absently drumming against his thigh stilled. His thoughts were rapid now, no longer slow and silver tainted by the ghostly quality Sherlock's words had stuck around with. They were tumbling like chips of ice in glass now, shattering in their solidified forms.
Perhaps that's why Sherlock wasn't so monstrous to him? Most of the police force seemed to be utterly contemptuous of him, especially Anderson and Donovan, who'd even tried to warn him off from Sherlock. Seeing the tense way the police and Sherlock interacted had been not just awkward, but also unsettling in a way John hadn't been able to pinpoint until now.
Sherlock Holmes reminded him of war. The man's unpredictability, cannon fire rapid thought process, and the things that just seemed to happen around him, crazy things that never happened to normal people. He made John feel alive for the first time since he'd arrived back in London, like someone human instead of the automaton he'd slipped into being. When they'd chased that cab, John had just taken off after him into the night, uncaring of the fact that he had no idea where Sherlock was leading him, or that leaping buildings was generally unsafe, and that it was monumentally stupid to do such a thing with someone he barely knew. All he had been able to focus on was his pounding heart, the tingling rush of goosebumps across his skin, and the sense of being alive.
(Was a god able to make a human feel human again? And if so, what did that say about the god?)
He and Sherlock both found normal boring. Granted, it was for different reasons (Sherlock was the god and he the mortal after all), but the shared sentiment (Sherlock would hate that word choice) was still there. Both of them craved the high of the chase, craved the thrills and dangers and adventure and risk normal people tended to avoid. Sherlock had been right when he'd handed him back the cane he no longer needed and said he'd missed it all. The man had spoken like it was the truth, confident in the words he'd spoken like he was confident in everything else he said, and the gleam in his icy eyes had caught John off guard. He knew now that Sherlock was right (was usually always right), but had the man known the whole time that John had missed war in his own twisted way?
The more he thought about, the more he realized that yes, Sherlock probably had. It was most likely the reason why the man had taken him on as his flatmate to begin with, and why he'd been pulled into crime-solving with nary a second thought. Sherlock had known normal was boring for John too and had given John a bit of purpose and thrill through crime-solving.
John knew that trying to find the purpose in Sherlock's actions was hopeless at times; the fickle man always grew annoyed when he had to explain himself. But he had to admit, he was curious as to whether Sherlock had taken him in out of curiosity, like some sort of science experiment, or out of something far more human.
(Gods did very human things in mythology sometimes.)
Dear God what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring!
John found that now he could almost relate to the words. In another situation, in another tone, he could almost see himself saying it. Except when he said it, he'd be referencing his almost obsessive need for all the thrill and adrenaline he could gain from life as opposed to some agonizingly bland, cookie-cutter existence. Oh, he liked to try and pass off as normal, as one of the countless others with normal lives, but the longer he spent in the company of Sherlock Holmes, the more John came to realize he was lying quite fiercely to himself by trying.
Yes, that's what it was. People were wrong when they said Sherlock Holmes was a monster. Because if that was the case, wouldn't John be one as well?
The ice of his thoughts melted into something more like cool water, no longer so cutting and needy for attention. John knew (despite some of his darker thoughts at times) that he wasn't a monster, and therefore neither was Sherlock.
Simplified thinking maybe, but at this late hour and John's natural limit on his thinking capabilities, he thought it was the best he could do.
The package deal, all or nothing sort of thinking he'd used to tie Sherlock and himself together slipped by unnoticed amid all his other thoughts.
A mournful tune drifted through his wall, and John frowned, suddenly dragged from his cyclic thoughts by the trademark sound of a violin.
It wasn't the screechy, shrill playing John knew Sherlock did on purpose to express frustration, or to simply be annoying. This wasn't Sherlock swinging his bow back and forth like a child with a wooden sword, horsehair swishing through the air like a whip. This was soft and sad and almost... morbid, but that could have just been John's thought process of monsters and ice coloring his perception.
John had half a mind to get up and go sit in the living room, where he knew Sherlock would be, drawing his bow back and forth to pull the melodic notes put and into the air. He almost did; John had sat up and looked at the pants draped over his chair before realizing that if he did go, Sherlock would most likely stop.
He wasn't sure how he knew this, but he could take a guess. Sherlock, while he'd mentioned playing the violin at any hour when they'd first met, hadn't actually played the violin at all once John had gone to bed. John was a light sleeper nowadays; he would've heard it. Therefore, the unpredictable man thought he was sound asleep right now.
It was just like Sherlock somehow, to show a bit of restraint and then test a limit John hadn't even spoken with him about yet by playing tonight very softly. He didn't think he'd seen him do it with others, but John had noticed that at times, some of his words seemed to get through to the man. It was a contradiction to his seemingly heartless character, but only if one assumed that Sherlock was a cruel monster and incapable of human notions.
Did Sherlock Holmes know some saw him as a monster? Did he care?
Sherlock's original words had been put to rest, settled by John's convoluted, but ultimately acceptable thinking. Now though, two new questions haunted him.
He sighed slightly, slipping back down to lie on the mattress as he listened to the music. Suddenly, John was too tired to devote any more effort to his thoughts, so he tugged up the covers and strived for a bit of sleep.
All thoughts of gods and monsters drifted away as the violin continued on, and the chill John had allowed to keep him awake was gradually replaced by warmth. It felt like he was almost intruding upon something private, listening to Sherlock play such a mournful tune so softly. Like a secret of some sort, one that he didn't understand as he didn't know the language of music but could still appreciate the weight of through every swooping note. Sherlock was speaking, and John was happily listening, even if he couldn't understand.
(Could one understand a god?)
John managed a faint snort at his, quite frankly, disgustingly poetic thoughts (must be the late hour), and rolled onto his side, shutting his eyes firmly before falling asleep.
…
In the morning after John's deep thought session, he unsurprisingly didn't remember much of his original thoughts to begin with. Bits and pieces lingered, intercepted by a faint memory of mournful violin music drifting through the wall. A hazy dream of marble statues coming to life, carved in the form of ancient gods caught him off guard in the very early moments of his wakefulness, but then something very heavy and expensive-sounding shattered in the kitchen and drew his attention. John slipped out of bed, managing to get a robe tossed on before exiting to deal with whatever situation his temperamental flatmate had started now, and in the moment that it took for him to get up and move, the dream slipped away like dust.
The sudden lingering glances to the various stone statues that littered London were just that. Glances.
…
The living room felt smaller when it was just him occupying it.
John had ensconced himself on the couch, wrapped in his comforter as he gazed blankly into the fireplace. He'd had a dream about the war, and while they didn't plague him as often as they used to (he was too busy some days to even get sleep), every once in awhile, one would pop up.
He was vaguely aware that it was now early morning, and that the pale sun filtering through the blinds of the flat flickered constantly, as if intercepted by clouds outside, but John was too tired and in some kind of halfway sleep state to care. Now that he'd reminded himself of where he was (not in Afghanistan, not shot and bleeding), it seemed his brain was satisfied and wanted to shut down. John, while more than happy to comply with the neurological impulse, had no idea how'd he get himself back to his bed to do so.
Of course, that was when Sherlock walked in.
Sherlock was dressed, but not in his coat or shoes, or even socks for that matter. Just a purple silk shirt John had seen before and dark slacks that hung low on his hips, his pale skin standing out amongst it all. His nimble fingers paged through a book, brow furrowed in concentration as he muttered underneath his breath, black curls dangling into his narrowed eyes.
That was as far as John got in his observation (Sherlock would have doubtlessly gotten farther) before the icy gaze was shifted from the pages of the book to him, and the man paused.
Sherlock hardly ever paused. He was either moving or wasn't; either flitting about a corpse like a crow or completely stock still as his brain worked furiously. Something about a "mind palace" was involved in those still moments, which was something John didn't completely understand yet but figured made sense considering the sheer brilliance of the man's mind.
Whatever the case may be, Sherlock didn't pause. Or rather, he didn't pause because he was caught off guard.
John blinked sleepily at him but couldn't summon more than a faint sense of pride at the idea that he, John Watson, managed to throw the great Sherlock Holmes for a loop. But then, he'd be caught off guard too if he saw his normal, average shmuck of a flatmate curled up on the couch like a child and probably looking like some shell-shocked soldier dredged up from the deepest depths of a sandy hell.
(He couldn't say it'd surprise him to see Sherlock if the situation was reversed. In the almost month that he'd known the man, he'd seen Sherlock doing various odd things at various odd hours that seeing him curled up on the couch at any hour was downright normal.)
"John," Sherlock said, closing his book carefully. The way he said his name, cautiously and with a faint head tilt, almost sounded like a greeting, which pleased John. He'd expected Sherlock to keep reading and moving, barely sparing him a second glance.
Perhaps that unexpected acknowledgment, and his lax, sleepy state, encouraged his next question.
"What's the word…" John started, tilting his head slowly as he blinked at the man (he really did look like one of those Greek or Roman statues) before him. He trailed off, losing this grasp on his thought before he snagged it again.
"What's the word for when you're really sleepy, but not quite asleep?"
He drew out the word "really", his voice faint and quiet with fatigue. John didn't think he'd felt this slow sort of tired since the day he'd returned to London, when he'd been so out of it that he'd fallen asleep on the floor of his shitty flat before he could even make it to his equally shitty bed. There was tired, and then there was this.
"Hypnagogic," Sherlock responded without missing a beat (the man was a genius after all), but his tone was distracted as his brow furrowed, "John…what are you doing on the couch?"
John blinked once more at Sherlock before huffing out a laugh.
"You sit on the couch all the time, whenever you want," he pointed out, and Sherlock made a noncommittal sound before taking a decisive step forward.
"But I am myself, and you are you," he responded, now close enough to the windows for the light to cut shadows across his face and pull a sheen of brown from his hair.
Strangely enough, Sherlock's words didn't sound high and mighty like they usually did when he insulted "average" thinking or something particularly stupid someone may have done that he would have never done. It simply sounded as if he was just pointing out that they were different beyond the glaring divide in intelligence; the sort of mundane differences that determined who was the one that typically sat drowsily on the couch.
"Perhaps," John said, unsure of what else to say and settling on the vague word to buy his sleepy mind a bit of time. "Care to join me?"
He wasn't sure why he asked that. It seemed Sherlock hadn't expected that either, for there was another long pause.
John was past the point of feeling embarrassed though, or stupid. He was tired enough that those sorts of inhibitions had been lowered, and as such he simply gazed patiently at Sherlock.
However, he wasn't tired enough to not feel surprised when the tall man sat down gingerly beside him on the side of the couch closest to the window.
Sherlock set down his book on a small stack already formed on the table. In the early morning light, his hair momentarily lit up like a halo before he sat back and blocked most of the light. John shifted a bit in his warm cocoon, turning just enough to look at the man.
He was...not relaxed, but he wasn't terribly stiff either. His hands were palm down on his thighs, and his back was straight, but his sinewy limbs weren't held tensely. It appeared as if Sherlock just didn't know what to do with himself, and John hummed as he made the distinction.
"Today's a good day for you," John said finally, and Sherlock frowned slightly before turning his head enough to look at him.
"You're dressed," John continued, nodding to the man's attire before he rested his suddenly heavy head on the back of the couch, "You smell like...soap and conditioner, which means you didn't do any experiments, and the kitchen smelled like food, which means you ate too."
John had seen the microwavable meal abandoned on the counter and noticed that most of the beakers and vials that had once been left carelessly out on the kitchen table had either been stoppered or clearly labeled. He'd had a word with Sherlock last week after the man had used the creamer jar to store some questionable purple liquid, and he'd poured said liquid into his tea when he'd been too sleepy to notice it (he'd nearly had a heart attack when Sherlock had yelled for him to put the cup down). It had taken the man some time to come around, but when John had stumbled out earlier to sit on the couch, coated in a cold sweat and reeling from the nightmare, he'd noticed the change. He'd also noticed the food and the distinct lack of Sherlock doing any sort of nightly activities.
"How does that constitute as a "good day" for me?'" Sherlock asked, and John shrugged, leaning against the cushions as he turned fully to face the consulting detective.
The only one in the world.
"It just does," he murmured, shutting his eyes for a very long second, "The longer you spend in your pajamas, the crabbier you get."
Silence fell between them for a moment (or perhaps a few minutes; John was too out of it to keep track of time like that) before a finger poked him in the cheek.
The motion was so unexpected that John opened his eyes to stare at Sherlock in disbelief, only to be taken aback when the man's face was much closer than he anticipated. No more than a few inches between them, just enough that Sherlock was all he saw.
"Interesting," Sherlock murmured, eyes flicking away from the top of his head to meet his own as his hand fell away, "For someone of your intellect, your deductions were rather well made. Simple and childish, but accurate nonetheless."
There was a dual tone to the man's voice as if he was insulting and complimenting him at the same time. John continued to stare before deciding that the duality really didn't matter. Sherlock's eyes said that he was leaning towards the latter, however dubiously he felt about it.
"You're not the only one that notices things," John said, voice soft as he pressed his cheek harder into the sofa.
Sherlock remained quiet, but John could tell the man was studying him from the way his pale eyes flicked this way and that. It seemed he made up his mind about something though, as he outstretched a nimble finger to skim across one of the dark circles beneath John's eyes.
"You haven't been sleeping, and yet this is your first time out on the couch. This means you've decided to keep your nightmares to yourself up until now," Sherlock murmured, deep voice even deeper in the early morning. It didn't help keep John awake at all, "Does the war still haunt you?"
John thought of Afghanistan and then thought of a purposeful stride breaking through the never-ending sea of London pedestrians with frigid eyes like the Arctic.
"At times. But not in the way people think it does," he responded, noting that Sherlock's finger wasn't cold at all. It seemed, just like John thought, the man only appeared to look like marble.
Sherlock's finger drifted down his cheek, though judging by his face tilt and the brief appearance of confusion, he'd heard more in John's response than he'd anticipated. He was trying to decipher the human aspect now, and John smiled sleepily as the man's brain visibly worked beneath his tangled locks.
Not much got by Sherlock Holmes, but it was interesting when something did, even if it was a sleepy throw away response on his part.
"You're not so bad, Sherlock," John said suddenly, feeling the urge to let the man know a bit of what he thought, of what had troubled him beside the occasional revisit to Afghanistan in his mind, "You know you're not a monster, right?"
Something flashed across Sherlock's face, and his finger was drawn away as his face set in an expression John had come to associate with the disdain he showed to the police. John found that he didn't like it when that look was directed at him and flinched ever so slightly.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about John," he said smoothly, even as his face froze over and his eyes paled to chips of ice. Gone was the vague sense of relaxation Sherlock had gained while sitting with him, and John mourned the loss even as he struggled to find the right words to rectify the situation.
(Because Sherlock knew, the liar.)
"You're no monster to me, Sherlock," he said finally, and when he said the man's name, he saw him twitch slightly, "You're just...you're just you, and I am I."
It wasn't a very good explanation for the thoughts that had been crowding his head and the other words that had been heavy on his tongue, but it seemed his echo of Sherlock's previous words helped. The man's lips quirked ever so slightly, and John found himself back in the presence of a more relaxed, if warier Sherlock.
"You should really get some sleep John. You make even less sense than you normally do when tired," he said, and this time, John could see the faint light of amusement in his eyes. It made them look less like ice and more open, like the windows to the soul people believed eyes could be.
"Couldn't sleep before," John said, even as the drowsiness that had been pushed aside as their conversation started returned (what had Sherlock called it? Hypnagogic?).
"And now?" Sherlock asked, the amusement now tainting his deep voice. John didn't think he'd ever seen the man so...warm, and never so amused outside a case or when he was poking fun at the police.
"Shut up," John said mildly, eyes dropping shut even as he smiled, and he heard Sherlock hum slightly.
"Go to sleep John."
…
Sand drifted through the streets of London, sinking into nooks and crannies it shouldn't have ever belonged in. The sand existed only on the periphery though; trivial compared to the monochromatic sea of people before him.
They parted around him, oblivious to anything besides themselves. The only trace of color came from the sand, and John when he looked down to find that his jumper was still green, and his hands traced with blue veins and alive with the pink flush of blood.
None of the people touched him, but they were gradually buffeting him backward, like a paper airplane carried away by air currents beyond its control. John began to fight against the drift, but it was useless.
"Would you accept a monster's help?"
John turned to face the new figure that had manifested a few feet away. The people gave Sherlock a wide berth as well, but for a different reason. While they avoided him due to his invisibility, they cringed away from Sherlock.
He radiated cold, eyes nearly colorless and devoid of all emotion. No arrogance or triumph; not even the stray spark of mischief. His coat swallowed him whole from the neck down, shrouding him in a black deeper than the faded gray-black that made up the darkest color of their surroundings. Sherlock was marble infused with the barest trace of life, just enough to bring stone to life.
"You're no monster," John found himself saying, despite Sherlock's stiff, inhuman appearance.
Sherlock blinked, almost reptilian-like before a spot of color bloomed in his iris. The only reason John saw it was because he was looking deep into his eyes, searching for the color he knew existed.
"So, would you accept my help?"
"Yes."
Time seemed to still around them. The faceless people moved in slow motion, leaving only them and the sand moving in what constituted as normal pace. John thought it was a silly question for him to ask, but Sherlock seemed startled by his ready answer, thin cracks spiderwebbing across his fine, flat face.
"You're a strange man, John."
"No stranger than you. I know there's a heart beneath all of that."
The cracks deepened, but Sherlock didn't seem to feel or notice them. His eyes were alight now, revealing a spark of life that set him apart from the crowd that teemed around them. There was the passion, the wild, vicious struggle against boredom and stagnation that characterized him.
"Then follow me, as you always have," he declared, moving with a fluid grace that defied his marble appearance.
The sands receded as Sherlock began to stride down the street. Time returned to what it was before, and John was left to follow him in his wake. He watched as marble dust blew in the wind, fine enough to blend in with the paper sky above them.
Like a snake shedding his skin. Or, like a man shedding a façade. John didn't dwell on it, as he much preferred the dust to the sands that had drifted through.
"The chase is on, John!"
A hand grasped his, still pale but no longer marble white. John had just enough time to take in blue eyes wild with delight at the oncoming run before he was yanked forwards, barreling through a gray world at a speed kept only by him and Sherlock.
What they were looking for, John knew not. All he knew was that the chase was on, and ecstasy suffused his entire being as he ripped himself free of the current and raced onwards.
…
When John woke with a quiet sigh and alert eyes, Sherlock was gone.
He thought that maybe he'd imagined the whole thing, but in the now strong noon light, he could see the book that Sherlock had been reading sitting on the coffee table. There was also a pillow from his room beneath his head that he knew he hadn't brought out with him when he'd woken from his nightmare. He knew Mrs. Hudson couldn't have done it because she would've inevitably woken him with her fussy nature.
Did Sherlock Holmes know some saw him as a monster? Did he care?
John didn't remember too much of his odd conversation with Sherlock, but he remembered the way his face had closed off when he'd asked if he knew that he wasn't the monster people made him out to be. He could remember the way Sherlock had paused, and the way he'd dragged a finger down his cheek and spoken of war.
If anything, he remembered his dream better. The sand, the dust, the sensation of being lost in a crowd, almost swallowed into obscurity before being pulled free into motion by someone trapped in stone.
Sherlock knew. And he cared. To what degree John didn't know, but he was certain of it.
John sat back against the couch and wondered why, despite the answers he now had, they didn't seem to be enough to satisfy the last question he had in his mind.
Did he care?
…
It took another two weeks, another chase through London for a killer (who had been a surprisingly sprightly old man) and running to the nearest shop for milk in a sudden late-night downpour for John to finally figure out why the last question had bothered him so.
When it did hit him, he felt like a complete idiot, standing on a street corner a few blocks from 221B Baker Street with his broken umbrella dangling in his hand and a probably slack-jawed expression on his face.
He, John Watson, was attracted to Sherlock Holmes.
Cold rain soaked through his thin jacket and into his jumper below, sticking his hair to his forehead and sending a shiver down his spine. John didn't notice though, too caught up in the sentence now emblazoned in his mind.
He, John Watson, was attracted to Sherlock bloody Holmes.
When had it begun? Had it been when he'd visited St. Bart's and been read like a book by the man? Had it been that night when they'd chased the cab, and he'd followed without a second thought, leaving behind his cane and stupid therapists in one fell swoop? Or had it been one of those increasingly common moments when Sherlock would part crowds in the street, magnetic and dark and pale as he strode, and John followed, unknowing what was running through the man's mind, but accompanying him regardless?
John shivered, and it wasn't from the freezing rain now coming down in sheets that obscured London. Sherlock had an undeniable presence and perhaps-perhaps that was it. He was just caught up in the atmosphere and volatility and barely restrained chaos that the man relished in. John couldn't be blamed; Sherlock left people blindsided at best and nursing vicious wounds made by his words at worst. He had the uncanny ability to draw strong emotions out of people, all as he kept such a tight restraint on his own.
The lie didn't last long when he thought of icy eyes and silk shirts and a single pale finger dragging down his cheek.
(He had been warm, not cold. Sherlock was just the appearance of marble.)
There was attraction, and then attraction and John knew he fell into the latter category that could only get him burned. Sherlock was married to his work after all, and it was a hopeless endeavor.
Just put it out of your mind right now. Don't think about it.
A car horn somewhere nearby reminded John that he was still outside and that the rain hadn't paused in its deluge to allow him to think. With a muttered curse, John started the trek back to 221B, his umbrella trailing behind him in a broken, pathetic mess.
It continued to trail behind him as he tramped up the stairs, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's inquiring call as he pushed open the door (the door was almost always unlocked nowadays), and simply stood in the doorway.
The fire was smaller than when he'd left, sputtering weakly. That didn't surprise him, as judging by the sounds coming from the kitchen, Sherlock had little time for pesky domestic things like tending to the fire. Not only that, but one of the windows was open, letting in a healthy amount of wind and rain.
He ignored that issue for the time being, letting his eyes drift in an arc around the rest of the living room.
A crumpled sheet on the sofa marked where Sherlock had probably sat for a bit before working, and John's laptop was sitting on the side table. To his annoyance, it was unlocked despite the fact that he'd changed his password. An empty mug by it had a chip in the rim that, while he couldn't be completely sure, John was convinced had also happened while he was gone.
John sighed, dropping the now useless umbrella so he could rub a hand over his face. All he wanted to do was go to his room, get dried off, and mull on his revelation in peace (of all the people he could possibly be into…), but he couldn't. One reason was that John Watson was not a coward, but the bigger reason was much more mundane.
He had bought milk, and he wasn't going to let it spoil.
I went through too much trouble to buy this bloody milk, so I might as well put it away.
"Sherlock, there better be a cleared space for this milk," he called out, mentally patting himself on the back for keeping his voice as normal sounding as possible. Hell, he'd even been civil enough not to bring up the open window first and foremost.
"Is that you, John?"
John sighed, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel. In all honesty, he was surprised Sherlock had even acknowledged his presence while in the midst of an experiment. If it wasn't for the thrice-damned milk, he could've beaten a hasty retreat.
"No, it's Mrs. Hudson," he snarked back, shoes squelching as he made his way to the kitchen.
"You don't sound like her," Sherlock remarked without looking up from his microscope. He was surrounded by open containers, and his laptop was perched precariously atop a stack of books to his left. He was dressed in the purple shirt John knew he favored, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal long, pale forearms.
John pointedly ignored the expanse of skin (he did not want to touch it) as he stood with his arms crossed, one foot tapping as rainwater dripped off him to pool on the floor.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked after a long minute in which John tried not to shiver or look too closely at Sherlock himself, lest he think about things he didn't want to think about at the moment.
One thing at a time.
"Is there a space cleared in the fridge?"
Sherlock made an irritated noise in the back of his throat as he finally looked up from his microscope. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, which John already knew of (he hadn't slept the whole weekend; he was sure of that), and an odd green stain from something he'd probably been messing around with earlier stained his cheek.
"What for?"
"The milk," John said slowly, holding out the plastic bag and shaking it a bit. Water droplets flew outward and pattered against their targets, "Along with other necessities we were lacking."
Judging by the faint crinkling of Sherlock's brow, the necessities John had gone through so much trouble to get didn't rank very high on his list of necessities.
"Right," John said, running a hand through his soaked hair before moving towards the fridge, "I'm so sorry for going out to get something as inconsequential as milk in a downpour and interrupting your work-"
John had meant to punctuate his statement by harshly opening the fridge door and veering off onto another tangent by commenting on whatever body part was being stored inside of it today but instead found himself grinding to a halt when he was met with a cleared off shelf.
"What-I thought there were eyes here?" he asked, too shocked that the space was actually clear for once to keep being stubborn about it.
"I'm experimenting on them now," Sherlock responded dryly, holding up a petri dish with what looked like a halved eye, "You said you needed the shelf cleared, and they needed to be used tonight anyway."
"Right," John said faintly, unconsciously echoing himself, "Right that's-good. Very good."
He turned on his heel and began to put the cold items away, too caught off guard to say anything else.
It's pure coincidence, that's all. He wanted to use the eyes more than actually clearing the space because I told him to.
"Did you happen to take a dip in the Thames while you were out?"
The question was so out of place that John fumbled with the precious milk and nearly dropped it.
"No, it just so happens to be raining bloody cats and dogs outside, which I know you're aware of because you've got the blasted window open…"
John trailed off once he spotted the smirk on Sherlock's face that blossomed into a rare, outright grin; the kind that crinkled the edges of his eyes and brought some warmth to his face.
Christ, don't stare too long at him.
"That was a joke. You…you wanker!" John exclaimed with a part huff of outrage and part chuckle. He was more than aware of Sherlock's dark sense of humor, but this was a different brand of teasing he wasn't used to.
"Come now John, it'd be an entirely plausible hypothesis for an average person to toy with if it weren't for the fact that you don't smell like the Thames," Sherlock remarked, nostrils flaring ever so slightly as he sniffed delicately, "No, you smell rather pleasant. Exactly like the thunderstorm outside."
"That's…good. I think," John said, hoping the prickling heat in his cheeks didn't show up too strong a red.
"I meant it to be," Sherlock said distractedly, attention already sucked back in by whatever he'd scraped onto a microscope slide tonight, "I like storms. It's why I opened the window."
John gaped at the admission (since when did Sherlock ever reveal something so personal like that, and why now of all times?), but the man was already moving on, deft fingers switching slides as he pulled back to write something in a notebook.
"Ah-ha! I knew these eyes would prove useful," he muttered with a chuckle that boded very badly for whatever criminal Sherlock planned to nail in the future with his findings.
"Right. I'll just…oh, forget it," John said, shaking his head in half-frustration and half fondness as Sherlock buzzed like a bee over his findings, "A storm…honestly."
He took the opportunity that putting away the milk gave him to grin like a fool into the fridge. John Watson, a storm? Why, the comparison would've been more apt for Sherlock, the force of nature that he was. In fact, it's probably when he liked them so much.
John almost said so but caught himself well in time before he could dwell on the thought. Sherlock didn't-wouldn't-fancy him back (he wasn't even sure how to define the feelings he held towards Sherlock besides a strong, potent magnetism laced with affection that could be perfectly platonic) and he had never been eloquent. The words would get butchered on the way out, so it was for the best that he kept silent.
Still, as Sherlock whirled around the kitchen, eyes alight as his fingers danced through midair in the way that John knew meant he was itching to delve further down this new avenue he'd discovered, something in him thought that maybe he could have a chance. Pesky optimism, always popping its head up when it had the lowest odds of being useful.
He conveniently forgot to do anything about the open window. Any damage to the flat was conveniently repaired on the dime of Mycroft despite Sherlock's adamant refusals of his brother "meddling in his affairs", and Mrs. Hudson chose her battles wisely with Sherlock. Experiments got them a tongue lashing, but the window would only earn a mild admonishment.
John didn't crack open his window for a whiff, just to see what Sherlock was talking about. No, he went to sleep in his bed like a normal person that night and didn't agonize over his new-found affections for his best friend and flatmate at all.
…
"Hold on John!"
"What do you think," John gasped, hand clinging to Sherlock's, "I'm fucking doing?"
The bridge wasn't the highest in London, but John didn't want to go through the trouble of getting wet in the rank looking water and scaling the concrete embankment. If anything, the burglar they'd been chasing shoving him over the edge with a remarkably well-placed body check was more annoying than fearful for John.
Still, he didn't enjoy having his feet dangling in midair or the change that had fallen out of his pocket and was now somewhere below. John's trivial attitude towards the whole thing might've been concerning for a normal person, but John didn't lead anywhere near a normal life these days.
Sherlock only made a face back before hauling him upward with an impressive show of strength, dragging him back from the drop. The gray sky and rusted beams of the bridge whirled for a moment, and then John was back on his feet, with the closest to terra firma beneath his feet and a bit of an ache in his chest for his troubles.
"Are you alright? Did he hit you hard? I'll have to text Lestrade now," Sherlock said breathlessly, one hand cradling his face and peering at him for damage as the other fumbled through his coat pocket for his cell. He was showing a remarkable amount of concern considering the bridge wasn't even that high.
"Er-yes, no, and what are you texting him for? We lost him," John said, torn between sounding annoyed for bringing the chase to an end with his untimely tumble over a bridge, and confused by Sherlock's extended contact. At the worst, his ribs might bruise, and John had sustained far worse injuries.
"No, I've figured out where he's going," Sherlock explained, texting adeptly with one hand as he tilted his head this way and that, "Are you sure you didn't hit your head?"
"Quite sure. I am the doctor after all."
"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, ignoring his sarcasm. A strange expression crossed his face as if he was close to a deduction but was missing something important, "It's just that you look extremely disoriented."
John stared at him blankly for a second before he realized with a rush that Sherlock was mistaking his reaction at their proximity for a concussion.
Oh, dear.
"John? You look even worse. You must've been hit in the head somewhere," Sherlock insisted, beginning to tug his chin down so he could inspect the back of his head.
"No, no, I'm fine," John mumbled, praying fervently that his red cheeks could be sufficiently blamed on the nippy wind today, "Might be a bit of shock. Good thing you got me when you did."
"Well, if you're sure," Sherlock mused, letting go of his face and rubbing his chin, "Here, step this way. The wind is making your face all red."
Thank God for it, John thought, face flaming as Sherlock tugged him towards his taller frame, effectively acting as a windbreak. He was hardly acting better than a schoolgirl with a puppy love crush, but he couldn't help it. Moments like this with Sherlock were few and far between.
"I'm astounded you even managed to pull ahead of me, what with your shorter stride," Sherlock remarked as they walked off the bridge, "Your endurance may be questionable, but your sprint is something to marvel at."
John snorted, the words tempering the comforting feeling of being huddled up into Sherlock's side. It was so typical of him to wrap an insult and compliment all in one.
"My endurance is quite decent, thank you very much. You're just too embarrassed to admit you were slowed when your scarf blew up in your face."
It had been amusing to see Sherlock falling behind due to being blinded by his scarf. It was the only reason the culprit had even managed to body check John-he had been too busy laughing to even think of avoiding the blow.
"I was not slowed by it," Sherlock lied.
"Right. Then why it is in your pocket?" John asked innocently, tugging it from Sherlock's coat before he could try to take it back.
Sherlock glared down at him, nostrils flaring to no doubt deliver some scathing response. However, he held his tongue in check when, in a bold move he didn't think through, John wound the scarf around his own neck.
"It's not so bad. You shouldn't take out your anger on the poor thing," John murmured, stroking the wool. It smelled like Sherlock and was less itchy than it looked.
Sherlock said nothing, and John looked up to see an odd expression on his face. At first glance, it could've been mistaken for a typical pensive Sherlock-esque look, but there was something different to it John couldn't place.
"Of course you would empathize with my bloody scarf," Sherlock said, but there was no heat in his words. If anything, his odd expression reflected in his tone of voice. "Come. Lestrade will no doubt wonder why we are meeting him at a bakery."
"A bakery?"
"It's where our serial burglar likes to get his cupcakes."
Sherlock's pace quickened, mind back on the chase, and John only shook his head before following, scarf streaming behind him.
…
Lightning woke him.
John bolted upright, a cold sweat coating his skin as outside, thunder shook London. The nightmare was fragmented, blasted apart by the white bolts muted by his curtains, but he could still feel snatches of phantom pain in the leg he'd never been shot in and the dry dust of desert heat in the back of his sore throat.
Had he been screaming?
"John…John? Are you awake?"
Sherlock's voice drifted through his shut door; baritone just audible as the rain subsided momentarily in its lashing against his window.
Please, let me not have been screaming and woken him up.
John shuddered, entangling himself from the covers, nearly panicking when one of his feet wouldn't come free, before stumbling towards the door. In his hazy half-awake state, Sherlock sounded a hell of a lot better than the disorienting clash of the two environments around him: one hot, bloody, and dry; the other wet, loud, and howling.
A candle made John rear back as he yanked the door open, eyes squinting against the unexpected flame. Sherlock's face was all shadow and bone above the flickering flame, and it contorted into something akin to worry as he leaned forward.
"John?"
"I'm…I can't…put it out!" he exclaimed, voice raspy (oh fuck, he had been screaming) as he raised his hands to shield himself from the desert sun.
A soft exhale put the flame out. John's eyes danced with the afterimage of the light, and he groaned, clutching his head as he tried to banish all thoughts of Afghanistan back out of his head.
"That was so stupid of me. John?"
"I'm fine," John replied, voice strained as the blessed dark took away all traces of the light in his head. Now it was just the storm, and while his head tried to warn him that the winds blowing outside carried sand, he knew better.
"Where are you right now John?"
A pale face came into his view, brow creased and tossing dark shadows over eye sockets. His vision was all wonky, but John would know Sherlock's face anywhere, anytime.
"In…London. Yes, London," John said, eyes darting this way and that as he took in the now familiar, if shadowy layout of his bedroom (when had he'd sat down on his bed?) and the person crouched a couple of feet from him, "Only a London flat would be this drafty in May."
Sherlock snorted, and John smiled faintly as his fingers clenched tight in the sheets.
"I apologize for that. I just wanted to check in on you, as the power's gone out," Sherlock said. John's eyes had adjusted enough for him to see the man picking at a loose thread on his robe, "I…did not realize that I may have created an accidental trigger."
Here, his tone became stiff, and John flushed.
Oh God, it's like useless therapy all over again God put me out of my misery-
"I'm sorry if I woke you and made you uncomfortable," he managed to say, feeling his stomach curl at the thought of having made himself a burden, "I-I thought the nightmares were just about done."
A crack of lightning briefly illuminated Sherlock's upturned face, and John was shocked to see no reproach or annoyance in his gaze.
"Oh, John," Sherlock sighed, the way his name fell out of his mouth sending a shiver up his spine, "You silly, stupid man. Why relive bad memories of Afghanistan on your own?"
"Don't-say it," John said, voice wavering between angry and confused (this was all too much to be doing in the dark) as he unconsciously pulled his legs up to his chin, "You just caught me off guard with the candle, and the storm is loud, and-"
"Is it hot or cold right now John?"
John's mouth clamped shut because now Sherlock's eyes were scrutinizing him, the whites of his eyes more visible in the dark than the icy blue of his irises, and he found that he couldn't readily respond. His skin rippled with goosebumps, but the sweat had turned from a cold sleep type to the familiar one he'd always had in Afghanistan.
"I-I'm in London," he said instead, hands moving from the covers to grip his shins, "In 221B Baker Street. I'm not bleeding out in the sand."
His leg, the old fake bum one he'd loathed dragging around when he'd need his cane, protested his tightening grip, but John held on anyway.
"That's right," Sherlock confirmed, voice softer than he'd ever heard it. John had heard it be lethally soft and manipulatively soft, but never…truly soft, "You're not in Afghanistan. You're here, with me, in 221B Baker Street. It smells like laundry detergent in here. You did the washing up earlier."
John's nose had been filled with the arid scent of the desert, but now that he thought about it, it did smell like detergent.
"I did your washing up too," he said, frowning as his mind flitted to a recollection from the day before. "You had another weird stain on one of your shirts. Really, Sherlock, you need to be more careful with what you spill on your clothing."
"I'll take that into consideration," Sherlock said, eyes flashing peculiarly before he launched into more mundane conversation.
So mundane in fact that by the time John realized Sherlock was doing this for a purpose, he was fully back in his right head and in London, all heavy thoughts of Afghanistan banished. His legs ached from being pulled up for so long, but he wasn't sweating and shivering, and the sight of the now relit candle didn't throw him back to the desert.
"I lit it five minutes ago," Sherlock said, raising the candle and leaning over John's bed to rest it on his nightstand, "Now I am sure it won't bother you."
John cringed at the thought of being laid so low by a mere candle, but the scent of sandalwood pulled him out of feeling shameful for too long as Sherlock perched beside him on the bed.
"The war still haunts you," Sherlock said, the statement oddly familiar.
A memory of sitting on the couch talking with Sherlock came to John, and he nodded as he realized that he'd been asked this once before.
"In ways I don't like," John said, running a hand through his hair, "Especially on nights like this…why would I miss something like that?"
Because he did miss it in a way, like how people got endorphin rushes when getting tattoos and running and leaping from planes. But he also missed it in a darker way, like an alcoholic on the path of recovery misses a drink. War was an ugly thing, but…
"It made you feel alive. The battlefield opened your eyes to a new way of living," Sherlock said, plucking the thought from his head with ease, "Excitement. Revelry. A rush you simply can't get performing physicals and signing off paperwork as a civilian doctor."
They sat in silence for a long moment before thunder rumbled outside, making John flinch ever so slightly. It was enough for Sherlock to pick up on though, the perceptive bastard.
"You can't hear it as much from my room," he remarked, propping his head in one large hand so he could turn to look at him, "If you want, you can sleep there for the night."
"I can't put you out of your bed-"
"Sleep matters little to me. I'm not tired at all," Sherlock proclaimed, and he indeed looked quite energetic considering the time of night.
John would've protested harder if sleep wasn't calling incessantly to him. Now that he knew he was safe and the nightmare had retreated, all he wanted to do was sleep somewhere as far away from the sound of the storm.
Another rumble of thunder made up his mind. He wouldn't be able to sleep with that raging outside of his window; not peacefully at least. Unlike Sherlock, he valued rest and got it whenever he could.
"Come, John."
Sherlock extended a rare helping hand to him that John hesitated only momentarily in taking. His body swayed as he stood upright, and he shivered as Sherlock led him out into the much cooler hallway.
"I never put my robe on," John murmured, just now realizing that he was only wearing a pair of flannel pants. No wonder he was so cold.
"Doesn't matter much now," Sherlock said as they entered his room. John had only been in here a few times, either to get clothes for when the man had been in his robe for too long or on the rare occasion Sherlock had fallen asleep at some odd hour and needed to be awoken for food.
"Hmmm," John hummed, eyes already sliding shut as he stumbled towards Sherlock's bed. It was as if passing through the doorway had triggered some neural pathway because now all he wanted to do was sleep.
What he didn't consider was the fact that their hands were still linked, and that he was much stronger than a caught off guard Sherlock. John shifted automatically, twisting so he half-landed on his back with Sherlock partly on top of him, chests colliding and forcing out twin whumps of air as their legs entangled.
"Oh dear," John said, voice muffled by the mouthful of hair he'd unwittingly inhaled. That had been a dizzying experience, but the result could've been worse.
"That was very graceful, John," Sherlock said, the words pressed into his bare shoulder.
John shivered at the fluttery sensation before raising the arm Sherlock had partly pinned with his own, squirming so he could wrap it around him. He wasn't sure why he'd done it, because if he had any sense, he would've helped him up and apologized profusely, but instead, he was pulling him closer.
It was a contradiction of sensation. Sherlock was warm, as warm as any human. Besides being a bit bony and taller, he fit as nicely as John had imagined against him. But his legs weren't even on the bed, and Sherlock was already wiggling like a worm on a hook.
And worms don't want to be on hooks.
"John?"
"M'tired," he said, shutting his eyes and moving the arm he'd draped selfishly over Sherlock, freeing him before he could do something more stupid and pull him closer.
However, Sherlock didn't immediately move. He only rolled to the side, propping himself up on an elbow as his other hand tapped his shoulder insistently, keeping him awake.
"You can't sleep in this preposterous position. For one, your spine will hate you in the morning-"
"Don't care."
John really didn't. Sherlock's hair tickled the side of his face in this position, keeping his scent close, and he was just about half passed out.
Sherlock sighed before moving. John sighed too, closing his eyes and ignoring the pang in his chest. He may have felt some way about Sherlock, but he was sure that his poor flatmate didn't care for being manhandled.
He yelped as hands grabbed his ankles and turned him so he was completely in bed.
"At least settle yourself in before you pass out," Sherlock chastised as outside, lightning cracked. The sound was muted though and didn't worry John. "Honestly John. Are you asleep?"
"No," he replied, tongue heavier in his mouth than he'd like to admit as he dragged his arms through the soft, smooth sheets beneath him.
Silk. Of course. If a god needed sleep, he'd sleep on silk sheets.
For some reason, the thought amused him so much that he began to chuckle, fingers still drifting through the soft silk he couldn't see.
"Are you laughing?"
Sherlock's indignation was so audible in the dark that it made John laugh harder, buying him a little more time awake.
"I forgot you-that you slept on silk!" he gasped.
"It's more comfortable," Sherlock said stiffly. John could easily envision him standing at the foot of the bed with crossed arms and an arched brow easily. "Better for my skin too…John?"
John wasn't sure when the laughing had turned into hiccupped sobs, but they had. Something in his chest had loosened, brought upon by the feel of the silk beneath him and the distinct scent of Sherlock and the way Sherlock had turned him about so he could rest better.
He hadn't expected the thoughtfulness at all from him. John was fascinated and attracted and confused by Sherlock at times and was proud to say that he understood him much better than most did. This meant he'd never deluded himself into believing Sherlock was something he wasn't, save for the few times he'd entertained fantastical thoughts of there being something more between them.
And yet, here they were.
"I don't know…I don't know what's wrong," John whispered, maddeningly confused. "I'm not even sad."
Footsteps shuffled around to the other side of the bed, the side he was facing before a hand reached out and carefully rested on top of his head.
"It's a natural reaction. Emotions are messy, interlocked things. Happy and sad don't exist on separate planes, but rather side by side, and so do the physical reactions that go with them. That's why it's so easy to go from one to the other in a heartbeat."
The hand smoothed his hair down once before moving to the side of his face, a thumb swiping away the tears following gravity's eternal pull down the bridge of his nose.
John sniffed, pressing his head into the hand just enough that he felt silly for chasing the comfort. The hand stayed though, connecting with Sherlock's voice as the intense emotion subsided in his chest.
"I am...not good at offering comfort," Sherlock murmured, hand a bit clumsy as it moved to clasp his neck, "I don't know if I'm doing this right."
"You're better at it than you think," John said, and he meant it. It was odd but suited Sherlock, and above all, it was genuine; these words whispered in the dark, tethered together by a hand deft enough to handle scientific discoveries and tease notes out of a violin.
"I didn't like admitting that by the way."
John huffed out a laugh and stretched out a hand to fumble for Sherlock, fingers sliding against his forearm.
"I know. But I understand. These things are hard for you…I'm sorry I'm not making it any easier."
Sherlock's reply of "Preposterous," was instant, clipped with a sudden irritation similar to that he developed when people were being particularly dense.
"You make things very easy for me, John," he continued, voice lowering from the volume it'd risen to in his burst of emotion, "Easier than anyone I've met in my life. Things that I used to have trouble with are nothing but paltry shadows when I'm with you. Drugs. Routines. Comfort."
John's fingers tightened around Sherlock to hide the tremble that ran through them.
"But only with you. Interesting, that," Sherlock said, voice far off as if he was somewhere in his mind palace.
It wouldn't surprise John if he was. He held his breath, the sudden tidal sweep of emotion long gone and replaced by a new, fitful anticipation that tumbled around in his chest. What was Sherlock considering?
Did he care?
He wasn't sure how much time passed like this, with Sherlock simply breathing and John clinging to him, but eventually, the grip of the mind palace slackened.
"John?"
"Yes?"
"Tell me something. I know you don't see me as a monster, but I'm viewed as one by enough that I have to ask. Do you enjoy my company?"
There were so many things John could say in reply. How could he explain the thrill and exhilaration Sherlock constantly made him feel, the sheer joy of running free through the streets with his blood zinging and lungs screaming in the name of crime-fighting? He couldn't ever put into terms how grateful he was that Sherlock hadn't seen another hollow soldier only partly home from the war, the rest of him filled in with PTSD. Sherlock had seen the opposite in him; a soldier removed from the fight and missing the ability to do his part. There was no way he could explain how much Sherlock fascinated him, aggravated him, moved him to see the world in a dizzying array of lenses he hadn't thought possible.
He certainly couldn't express how much he wanted to kiss all those doubts away and show him that he was more than worthy of being cherished. John was a physical man, who was more used to showing his care through his actions than words. He wanted so badly to pull him in and down into the silk, but he couldn't bear the burden of rejection, or worse, scaring Sherlock off forever.
He couldn't voice any of this. John's nature had no room for that much elegance and refined words. His mind went go, go, go, through the battlefields with hardly a stop for the finer details that didn't pertain to the fight at hand.
"Yes, you idiot. You're the furthest thing from a monster I could imagine."
Sherlock exhaled, long and low like the whisper of his violin bow when he pulled it through the air.
"I think you might be the first person to have seen me for what I am in the end. A man. Just a man," he said, fingers curling in the short hairs on the base of John's neck. Vulnerability hung in the air, as physical as the dried tear tracks on John's face.
"You're not just a man," John said roughly, trying to ignore the different kind of heat flooding his skin at the feel of the fingers sliding up through his hair, "You're a good man."
Sherlock huffed out a laugh that ghosted across John's exposed cheek, letting him know that his face was closer now than ever.
"You go too far, John. In this partnership, it is you that is the truly good man," he responded, his tone almost affectionate as his fingernails lightly scraped John's scalp, "The caring doctor; he who does my laundry and makes tea at odd hours."
"You're the one that asks for it," John grumbled.
Sherlock's laugh was more solid this time and music to John's ears. He rarely laughed like this.
"You're only cementing my point that you're the good man. Are you almost asleep?"
"I'm hypnagogic," John replied, words traveling out on an exhale that took him a breath closer to sleep. Sherlock's hand must've been spinning some sort of sleep magic that traveled right down into his brain because he had bounced back to being tired.
There was a pause of indeterminable length. It couldn't have been long, as John was still awake when Sherlock spoke.
"You remembered that?"
John cracked open an eye to peer at the spot he knew Sherlock to be, even if he could only make out his vague form and planes of shadow across ghost skin.
"Of course. I make a note to remember what you say when I can," he said honestly, "You always say such clever things…"
His thought slipped out of his grasp, slippery and unraveling faster than a spool of thread. Sleep hovered on the edge of his mind, eager to descend and swallow him whole.
"You never cease to amaze me, John," Sherlock said in a low tone of amusement (or was that embarrassment? He couldn't distinguish between anything anymore) before drawing his hand back.
"Sleep well, John," he whispered, "I'll see you in the morning."
There was a keen loss in John's chest as he heard Sherlock retreat, but strangely, a frail bit of hope too. The words had been well-meant, and it didn't seem as if Sherlock was running, or completely oblivious to the feelings he held towards him. He'd been blind to advances made towards him before by random people out in public, but not completely so. Every now and then he picked up on it, and at this point, John believed all the tenderness he held in his heart was beginning to blast out in an undeniable signal.
John drifted his hand through the silk sheets. Tender was just about the right word for it. Tenderness to contrast the magnetism, easy companionship to temper the flame that burned in him every time he saw Sherlock smirk or toss curls out of his face or stride with purpose through a sea of faded people.
A friend before a lover.
"Now you're just getting ahead of yourself," he muttered to himself, turning his face into the pillow so the coolness would will the heat from his face.
He fell asleep like that, caught in thoughts moving through his head at varying speeds, but eventually settling on the ghost sensation of the hand that had stroked his hair.
…
The soldier instincts he'd sharpened in Afghanistan had not gone completely to waste when he returned to home soil. He'd just found a different application for them in the work that he did with Sherlock, but also in the man himself. Sherlock, for all his cleverness and grace, had trouble with the most innocuous things. Remembering that something was on the stove, for example, whilst he got caught up in some discovery, was a common occurrence.
As such, when John woke entangled in the finest sheets he'd ever had the pleasure to sleep in to the smell of something burning in the kitchen, he moved. Didn't even think twice about it; acting was better in some situations than pausing to think.
He found Sherlock hissing and cursing at a skillet that must've just caught flame, as the smoke alarm hadn't gone off yet. John took a second to assess the contents (bacon; grease fire) before reaching into the cabinet and pulling out the salt they had.
"Back," he commanded in the same tone he'd told people when he needed space to treat someone in the field.
Sherlock backed away. John threw salt on the fire, turned down the burner, moved the pan, and found a lid for it all calmly, only turning to face Sherlock once the pan was sequestered to a back burner and some of the smoke dissipated.
"I didn't even know we had bacon."
That brought down the hunch of Sherlock's shoulders and a brief quirk of his lips. John smiled before wrinkling his nose as the smell truly hit him.
"Christ, that's bad," he coughed, waving a hand in front of his face to dispel the last of the smoke. "What on Earth were you thinking Sherlock?"
"I…wanted to make breakfast for you," he mumbled uncharacteristically, eyes flicking to the kitchen table.
John's eyes drifted there as well, noting the space (just big enough for both of them to put plates) cleared away, and the tea set that he just knew Sherlock had made sure held the proper substances in the respective cream and sugar containers before he'd laid it out.
He probably would've floated off right then and there in shock and thrill at the wholly unexpected sight if Sherlock hadn't continued speaking.
"But I went and got caught up in trying to decide what else to make besides bacon while I looked out the window and ruined it all. Blasted rubbish," he said viciously, reaching out to no doubt take his anger out on the skillet.
John intercepted his hand before he could get there, feeling the tense energy sear straight through his palm and dance up his arm as he twisted, pushing Sherlock's arm up away from the skillet and taking a subsequent step towards him.
"Don't," he said quietly, suddenly getting the sense that the distance between them had closed in a way he hadn't anticipated when doing this, "It might still be hot."
Sherlock blinked, and John watched his eyelashes cast shadows down his pale cheeks as he did. Then his eyes drifted downward, and he knew Sherlock was aware of this as his face became an unreadable slate.
"John."
"Sherlock."
John was distant in tone due to the frenzy in his mind, even as warning bells began to ring shrilly in his mind. He'd never been close like this to Sherlock in the light of day, hand clasping his bony wrist and mouths just a bit too far away for breath to mingle between them-
"Please step back."
A command. John obeyed automatically like the soldier he was, his mind flatlining for a brief moment as he stepped back to the other side of the kitchen and let Sherlock go.
You overstepped your boundaries, and now it's all in ruin.
However, instead of leaving the kitchen and letting John gathered what remained of his heart in the stoic silence he would try to muster as he'd expected, Sherlock inhaled deeply and stayed.
John watched, waiting, not daring to breathe from his side of the kitchen lest he disrupt Sherlock in any way. Perhaps there was still something that could be salvaged.
"We're going about this all wrong."
"Pardon?" John asked as Sherlock tugged on his hair. He thought he had an idea of what "this" was, but he didn't want to misinterpret anything now at such a crucial moment.
"This! Everything about you indicates that you appreciate romantic gestures," Sherlock snapped, flinging a wild arm out to encompass the set table and pathetically smoldering skillet, "I've never bothered with such romantic cues before, but even I should be able to get the simple ones right, like breakfast and tea."
Did he care?
The floating sensation had returned, replacing the leaden weight of oncoming disappointment that John had read it all wrong and Sherlock had no interest in him besides the passion of war and fight he brought into his life.
"Instead, I come close to falling into bed with you last night, and other times besides that," Sherlock said, words pouring from his bow mouth like the volatile liquids he poured into beakers to make color change and air smoke in dazzling displays, "On a whim, I come close to telling you things I shouldn't, when that's not part of the plan! The plan was to start with a nice gesture because you like nice gestures and then proceed from there. A simple one-two."
Sherlock's hands cut from one side to the other on "one-two" before moving to press against his temples.
"But it didn't work. Oh, how could I be so inept! I can control absolutely everything about myself, even my addiction to a degree, except when it comes to you, John Watson," he said, eyes cutting to him in a gaze filled with both passion and petulance. "It is infuriating. A single person, undoing me with knit jumpers and good tea."
John tried to swallow the sensation building in his chest, but it filled him with light and air until it overflowed in a series of hiccupped laughter, interrupting Sherlock's melodramatic rant.
"John?"
"I'm-I'm not laughing at you," he clarified before Sherlock could get the wrong idea (God forbid Sherlock thought he was laughing at him), "It's just-oh, I'm so happy now."
That was what the floating feeling was in his chest. Happiness, so weightless that it gave John the courage to glide across the kitchen and grasp Sherlock's flushed face with his calloused hands.
"You just answered the final question in my head," he breathed, feeling Sherlock's hands rest uncertainly on his waist, "I thought I'd answered it myself, but now I understand why it wouldn't go away. It had changed without me even realizing it."
"And what question would that be?" Sherlock asked slowly, eyes slightly narrowed as he tried to puzzle out what John was going on about.
"Did you care about me?"
Something flared in Sherlock's eyes, so human and alive that it would've taken John's breath away if it'd been given the chance.
Sherlock, however, could get ahead of himself some days, and this time was no different. He swooped in with force and wild abandon, lips firm and hands clutching him close and stealing away his breath and mind with his warm mouth.
John's eyes slid shut, arms bracketing on the counter on either side of Sherlock because he was sure his legs would give way any second if Sherlock didn't cease this wild kiss of teeth and tongue.
Where the hell did he learn how to kiss like this?
But Sherlock did pull back, a bit of anger in his eyes that turned into something intense as his fingers lightly touched his jaw, so different from the passion he'd showed a moment earlier.
"I've never cared about anyone quite so much in my life," he intoned solemnly, and John smiled, uncaring of the fact that he probably looked as if his head was still in the clouds.
"I know. I know, Sherlock," he managed to say before he couldn't resist tugging Sherlock down into another kiss that he kept a tight rein on. It wasn't fair that Sherlock got to leave him feeling breathless without John at least attempting to reciprocate.
"Mmm-John-"
With that final gasp of his name, Sherlock ceased talking, and John reveled in his victory for a few more sweet seconds before pulling back to admire his handiwork.
"I care about you quite a bit too," John said, rubbing his thumbs over the high flush that stained Sherlock's cheeks, "But you already know that. Which means that it's up to me to give the bacon another chance."
Sherlock's now darkened eyes blinked in confusion, and John chuckled before stepping away and towards the stove.
"Wait…John, you can't be serious."
"I take my breakfast very seriously."
"Will you really choose bacon over me?"
John hid his smile as Sherlock came up to stand behind him and drape himself over his shoulders. Typical Sherlock; holding off on breaching some boundaries to test them first and leaping over others with nary a second glance to what he was breaching. But the point was largely moot as between them, there were very few boundaries.
"It seems I'm getting both right now, so your question is voided."
Sherlock paused to take this in before groaning and conceding defeat with a peck to his jaw.
"I won't pour the tea," he said obstinately, slouching down at the table and picking up what sounded like one of his delicate scientific instruments.
"The world would end before you did that, even with romantic intentions in mind."
"…Touché, John."
A tad sulky, but John heard him set down the knick-knack he'd been toying with in favor of clearing a little more space for their breakfast, even though John was satisfied with the amount he'd cleared already.
Yes, there was no doubt Sherlock cared. He had funny ways of showing it, but that was only to be expected. It was Sherlock Holmes he was dealing with after all.
…
"Do you know when I knew, definitively, that my feelings were reciprocated?"
John turned his head a tad to let Sherlock know he was listening, but only a little from his very cozy position that involved burying his face in the crook of his soft neck. It had been a long day of chases through London's grimy alleys, but a blissful few months of silk sheets and cleared refrigerator shelves when he asked for them.
"I started to suspect on this very couch," Sherlock mused, drawing his hand down the knobs of John's spine, "That morning I found you out here and I explained what hypnagogic meant. But it wasn't until later, when you used that word so casually, and correctly, that I knew."
"Why that specific word?" John asked, enjoying the mild shiver his lips against Sherlock's skin drew.
"It was the final puzzle piece," Sherlock explained, "I'd been fumbling with all the other pieces I had, unsure if the picture emerging from the jigsaw was right, or maybe too blind to it because it featured emotions and required using my heart. But that word…only people that care hold on to the trivial knowledge I spout, and when you said it reminded me of all the other times you listened to me, and then trusted me. So on and so forth, until the puzzle was complete."
John pressed a kiss right up under his jaw and snuggled in closer as Sherlock kissed his temple.
"We'll print it out and put it on the mantle then, or something like that."
"That requires an amount of sentiment I don't possess."
"You always sell yourself short. You possess a lot more than you think you know, otherwise, we wouldn't be in this position, now would we?"
Sherlock grumbled but turned them around so John was on his back before kissing him with an intensity that he happily returned.
That seemed to put an end to the subject, until a few days later, when John entered the flat after running some errands and noticed a word scrawled beneath the yellow smiley face Sherlock had spray painted. It was undoubtedly Sherlock's handwriting, written in blue ink from the pen John always used to make the grocery lists.
John ran his fingers over the now familiar word, feeling the indents of the letters, and smiled.
Closest to official word count: 13959
If you're curious about some of my thought process behind this fic, head over to AO3 where I've made some author's notes.