The coffee tasted and smelled like burnt mud even with the 36g of sugar he'd dissolved into it. The cafeteria was the closest thing he could get to solitude in this useless place. John was in surgery and no one would tell him anything else. He had badgered the nurses until he was told to spend some time away from their desk or be escorted away.
"This tea is atrociously weak," Mycroft muttered, looking unhappily into his cup.
Sherlock was silent. His eyes dropped to the unassuming umbrella tucked so casually by Mycroft's knees. With the constant threat of danger or at the very least political espionage, there were better choices. But from the time he became a parliamentary private secretary he had carried it on his person at all times. It was as part of his persona.
Sherlock used to think of his violin in the same way - something to always come home to. Even when he wasn't playing he could hear the melodies in his head, fingers moving instinctively along some invisible fingerboard. For a long time he played mechanically and dispassionately. The notes were always perfect in their timing and tempo. His bow would travel up and down in a flawless movement of wrist to arm to shoulder. And naturally the untrained ear called it good. And it was good in its own way.
And it was enough until five years ago. John would constantly complain about the havoc that Sherlock reeked over his life, specifically his love life. No one considered the turmoil John created in his. Whenever that pressure built up, becoming unbearable with its emotional demands, Sherlock would turn to his violin. He let go of the strict principles that had guided his playing from a young age. He let the storm take him up, accepting it instead of fighting so hard. When he finally lowered his violin again calm would be restored. John would be beaming at him from his chair. And Sherlock would bask in the praise of the very man that drove him to these new heights.
At some point the violin had become what it truly was – an instrument. Because the thing he wanted to come home to had changed. John had become his anchor. John was his home.
"It's pointless to worry. He will make a complete recovery," Mycroft finally said and Sherlock looked up.
Mycroft's black eye was already fading and the cuts and scrapes on his face and hands had been cleaned. It was a far cry from his usual immaculate appearance. He'd found time to change into clothes that Anthea had probably brought him but his hair was still out of place. He could have gone home, to sleep or mull over the complexities of running the British government. He hadn't. He knew how important John was.
John could die. That was a reality. He wouldn't know John's prognosis until after his surgery. Even then he wouldn't let himself hope or believe – not until John was there and he could kiss him and hold him.
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow as his phone chirped.
"Dr. Watson is out of surgery. The nurses have deemed it acceptable if you'd care to see him."
John was carefully tucked under stiff white sheets. An IV drip line ran down from a pole and into his arm while the pulse monitor beeped in a continuous rhythm. His face was pale and worn, making him look far older than his forty years. Sherlock reached out a hand to smooth the lines of his brow. John would laugh and look embarrassed if he was awake. Or maybe he'd take his hand and kiss it. Maybe he'd understand.
John continued his drug-induced sleep. A nurse came to take his vitals. She was stealing supplies from the nurses station and drugs from the pharmacy when she could.
"He won't be awake until morning," she said, sounding annoyed.
"That leaves you ample time to pinch more oxycodone. Off you pop," Sherlock said, and she had fled the room without another word.
Sherlock picked up John's limp hand and held it in his. His forehead bent to touch it and that's how he fell asleep. Then someone was shaking him gently.
"Sherlock?" John asked.
Sherlock didn't move. He stayed bowed over the bed with John's hand still in his and squeezed it tightly. John's free hand moved to stroke his shoulder.
"Hey, I'm fine," John soothed.
Sherlock tried to talk. There was a lump in his throat and he couldn't swallow past it. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Tears began to trickle down onto their clasped hands. He didn't know if they were tears of relief or joy. He cried quietly, shoulders shaking even though he willed them to stop, while John smoothed his hair and tucked stray curls behind his ears.
Sherlock's head was still sunk into the bedding when Mary came to the door. She took one look at the pair and gave a small gasp. This was not a reunion between friends. It was much too intimate for that. This was an embrace of lovers long apart and now reunited. Mary took a step into the room. Sherlock didn't see John shake his head no, but he knew that he did. Mary left as quietly as she came.
Sherlock finally pulled himself up, quickly wiping at his eyes with his sleeves. John took both his hands and looked at him. His gaze was intense and direct. Sherlock melted into it. No one could see him way that John did. No one looked at him like that, like a human being, like someone to be loved.
"Sherlock did you mean what you said? About…being in love with me?"
Sherlock stiffened and pulled away, pulling back into himself. They were on the cusp of something, both afraid to jump before the other had fallen. It was his turn to do the right thing and take that step. He was falling all over again, body spread out like an angel with the cold air pushing against him, closer and closer to that inevitable ending. Sherlock couldn't look at John as he nodded.
"I'm in love with you too," John finally said.
Carefully, so careful, John pulled Sherlock back over the bed. Their lips met in a simple yet firm touch.
"I love you," Sherlock said against his mouth.
"I'm still not gay," John said as they pulled apart.
"Well I am," Sherlock replied.
"Glad we got that cleared up," John smiled.