Sherlock watched him go, his heart in his throat. This was all going wrong, and horribly so - John wasn't supposed to leave. Heck, John didn't leave, not even when Sherlock drove him up the wall with his rudeness and his sulking. He could always be counted upon to be there in the morning, maybe grumpy but reliably, solidly there. They'd been given second chances, and thirds, and even fourths - and Sherlock realized that he couldn't keep squandering them anymore. He got up and ran after John, catching up with him halfway down the aisle and spinning him around.
"No, John, please don't go, I - "
John stood straight and tall, the letter from Mary crushed to his side, every bit the soldier, but Sherlock could see through it. The clenched jaw, the raised chin, the barely concealed emotion in his eyes - how could I be so blind? How did I not see it all along?
"Look, you don't have to pressure yourself into this." John said, his voice almost unnervingly steady. "It's not your fault. This was a mistake - you're married to your work, you told me that when we first met. We've been through worse. We can work through this."
"John, you're wrong. Again."
"Snarky bastard."
"No. Look at me." Sherlock tilted John's face up and met his eyes. "It's you. It's always you, John Watson. Didn't you know?"
"How on earth am I supposed to know? I'm not you!"
"You're not me, you're you, and I've wanted you for years." Sherlock said, and there was a hint of desperation in his voice now. "I thought about you, constantly, whether you were with me or not. Even when I didn't see you for two years, and after you got married - I never stopped loving you." His voice cracked, and he felt a tear trace its way down his cheek. He wiped it away angrily. "See? Body betrays me."
John was still staring at him, utterly taken aback. Finally, he sighed and reached out to wipe Sherlock's tears with his thumb.
"Oh, Sherlock. You're such an idiot."
Offended, Sherlock opened his mouth to retaliate, but the next thing he knew, John had pulled him closer. For a moment, their eyes locked, and then John's lips crashed onto his and everything was oblivion. He was vaguely aware of John's hands on his waist, and he knew his were doing something similar, but for the most part, his attention was diverted by John's mouth, soft and warm against his own, mixing with the salty taste of his tears. That smell - he smells like me, he thought - but to his utter disappointment, John pulled away. Sherlock made an involuntary sound halfway between a whine and gasp. How embarrassing, said the still-rational parts of his brain.
"Let's go home." John said. "We'll talk. Okay?"
"Yes. But first - John, I -" Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how to phrase what he was thinking. "I want to do the thing with you. You know, when two people who like each other go out and have fun and do things together…"
"You mean dating? A relationship? You want me to be your boyfriend?"
Sherlock shrugged. He'd never quite understood the point of these labels - but then again, he'd never understood the concept of love and sentiment. Still, he had to admit that part of him liked knowing that John was his. It wouldn't hurt to have a valid reason to drive away all those women who kept flirting with John.
"Yes. That thing." Sherlock said.
"You've never asked anyone out before, have you?"
"Well...not for me. Not when I really wanted it."
"That's not a real answer."
"Neither is yours."
John laughed. "Dating Sherlock Holmes. It's absurd. Yes, you bloody moron, absolutely. I'll be your boyfriend - if you'll be mine."
"Good." Sherlock said, not trusting his voice anymore. "That's good."
There was a John-shaped balloon of happiness in his chest, and he was afraid he might float away with it.
"She's going to grow up before we even realise it." John said wistfully, watching Rosie totter around the room. She'd taken her first steps the week before ("Oh, you're home. Rosie walked today." "I told you to call me when that happened, Sherlock!") and was now taking every opportunity to explore the flat.
"On the other hand," he continued, "Some babies never grow up." He smiled down at Sherlock's head in his lap and ruffled his hair affectionately.
Two weeks of being together, and the casual ease with which John touched him still surprised Sherlock. Sherlock loved it, of course, but he didn't understand how John did it - every time he tried to touch John, his nerves turned to mush. Every fibre of his being longed to hold and be held, but he couldn't shake the nagging doubts he'd fostered over the years. How much is too much? he always found himself wondering. When does my love turn into a chokehold?
No such thoughts seemed to bother hadn't told anyone about them yet, save Mrs Hudson - things were too new and fragile and Sherlock had a gut feeling that John was trying to ease him into things slowly. Part of him knew that it wasn't just for him; John was still trying to figure himself out.
They hadn't seamlessly morphed into happy couple mode, of course. In the beginning, there was some awkwardness and hesitation, and always an element of partial disbelief. They'd gotten over it quickly, though, their happiness profound enough to override everything else. They were mostly unchanged in public, but while they were in the flat, John was more open than he had ever been. He'd casually put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, or hug his waist halfway through an experiment, or ruffle his hair in passing, or press a hand to the small of his back, or kiss him for no apparent reason.
And the hand-holding - Sherlock had never known that there were so many kinds. When they were chasing criminals, there was the steady, strong grasp. When either of them was tired or frustrated or sad, there was the soft, reassuring squeeze. When someone awoke from a nightmare, there was the desperate, white-knuckled clutch. When they felt an overwhelming surge of happiness, there was the finger-linking, like jigsaw pieces meant to fit together.
But his favourite by far was when John gently rubbed his hand with his thumb, because it meant that he would inevitably lean in for a kiss. In fact, he was doing it now - rubbing Sherlock's hand and kissing his knuckles. Sherlock got up and pulled him closer, so far past caring if John thought him too needy. He captured John's lips with his own, but John sighed breathily and pulled away.
"I've been meaning to ask - where did you learn how to kiss like that?" John asked.
"It comes up in casework more often than you'd think. People tend to let their guard down when they're sexually manipulated."
"So you just go around snogging your suspects?"
Sherlock shrugged. "The ones who are oriented towards men, yes. It's a last resort strategy, but it's surprisingly effective."
"Huh." John shifted to allow Sherlock to sit up properly. "I didn't think that would be a problem."
"What do you mean?"
"Even straight men have probably thought about kissing you at least once." John said. "I mean, you're gorgeous. All dark curls, sharp cheekbones, long limbs, the cupid's bow - and not to mention those eyes." He leaned forward to press a kiss to the point where Sherlock's jawbone met his neck. "You have this ethereal beauty that just draws people in. I've spent so many hours just looking at you...you have no idea."
"Whatever happened to 'I am not gay?'" Sherlock asked, trying to keep his voice steady, which wasn't easy with John's warm hands under his shirt.
"It still holds." He moved up to kiss Sherlock's cheekbones. "I'm not gay, I'm bi. Do your research."
They were both so engrossed that they didn't notice the door opening - Mrs Hudson came in and awwed, closely followed by Mycroft. He cleared his throat, causing them to spring apart.
"Is this a bad time?"
"Yes." Sherlock snapped, pulling John to him again. "Go away."
"Don't be rude." John scolded. "Come in, Mycroft." He turned to Sherlock and lowered his voice. "Look, he just walked in on me licking your face. It's a little transparent at this point. He deserves to know, and if you want to tell him - it's fine by me."
Mycroft lowered himself into the client chair (he'd learnt not to sit in John's or Sherlock's), and Rosie immediately ran to him, squealing. He sighed resignedly and hoisted her up.
"She seems to like me." he said.
"I wouldn't worry about it." Sherlock said, "Maybe she's just glad you haven't hidden her in a mental asylum yet."
Mycroft shot him a dirty look. "Let's address the elephant in the room, shall we? You two - are you a - a thing?"
John snorted, and both of them looked at him, bewildered. "I'm sorry, it's just...you Holmes brothers. Neither of you can say words like relationship, dating, couple or boyfriend out loud."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mycroft, we are...a thing."
Just for a moment, there was a ghost of a smile on Mycroft's lips, but it vanished as quickly as it had come. "Well, brother mine, I thought it was about time. Let's move on, shall we? I am a busy man."
"The Queen has a schedule." Sherlock whispered, and John pinched his hand, trying to suppress his giggles.
Mycroft rolled his eyes, pulled out a small envelope and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock opened it and took out two black-and-white photographs - they showed a short, wiry man leaning against a wall, tensely scratching his chin with a gun. The print was hazy and the angle unhelpful, but the man's facial features were just about distinguishable - his blonde hair, beard and sharp jawbone.
"Sebastian Moran." Sherlock said, holding the photo up to the light.
"Indeed. These photos were taken in Poland a day ago."
"Isn't he supposed to be dead?" John asked.
"Those tapes were doctored. The man in them wasn't Moran, just a lookalike." Mycroft said, "Switzerland always was one of Moriarty's - now Moran's - strongholds. They had a government official slip in the tapes and pass them off as credible. A while ago, he cracked and confessed - of course, he was killed before we could take any further action."
"So Moran knows that we know he's alive." Sherlock said. "This picture - he either actually is in Poland and was unaware of the surveillance camera -"
"- or he wants us to think he's in Poland, when he could actually be anywhere." John completed for him. "Basically, the only thing we know is that he's alive."
"An accurate summary." Mycroft said. "I just thought it prudent to let you know, to - put you on your guard, so to speak. You can keep the photos. I'll be on my way now."
He got up and handed Rosie to John ("Unc! Bye!"), pausing to politely nod at Mrs Hudson on the stairs.
"Bless his soul, he's trying to learn some manners." she said, when he had left. "Oh, boys, what a terrible mess you've made! Here, let me just take these cups -"
The photos on the table caught her eye. She stared for a moment, then recognition and horror blanched her face, and she swooned. Sherlock and John caught her and lay her down on the sofa, bewildered.
"Tea?" Sherlock asked.
"No, she needs something stronger. Do we have any brandy?"
Sherlock left and returned with a glass. John put the glass to her lips and she spluttered, then sat back up.
"Really? Don't you have anything stronger?" she asked. She looked at the photo again and swallowed. "Sebastian Moran."
"You know him?"
She pursed her lips.
John and Sherlock shared a look, then John reached out and took her hand. "Mrs Hudson...you have to tell us what you know. People's lives could depend on this information."
She hesitated for a moment, but then sighed resignedly. "Oh, all right. Sit down, boys. First - I need you to promise me that what I tell you won't leave this room."
John and Sherlock shared another silent glance.
"We promise." Sherlock finally said.
"Firstly, Moran's a lot older than he looks." she started. "What I'm about to tell you is practically ancient history - it happened back when Frank and I were still married, and he was running the drug cartel. There was a man - Frank's rival - and Frank invited him over for tea, to discuss some business matters."
"That's strange." John remarked. "Inviting your arch enemy over for a casual meal."
"Not really." said Sherlock. "The best battles can happen over tea. I've had Moriarty over for tea. Go on, Mrs Hudson."
"So they had their tea, and halfway through it, I heard a mighty crash and came rushing in. Turns out Frank had poisoned his guest. He completely panicked - I suppose he hadn't thought of the consequences of murder. It was a fairly transparent case, after all - anyone could've solved it and sent him to jail. At that time, in the province where we were living - no, I will not tell you the name - Moran was known for 'handling' small affairs like this. Frank contacted him, and he covered it up. The man who was killed - he's deemed missing to this day. No one ever found out."
"That's what the letters blackmailed you about?" John asked.
"Yes."
Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts. "Rest assured, Mrs Hudson, no harm will come to you. Not on my watch. Even if this does come to light - there's nothing to prove you knew about the murder."
"Is he back?" she asked. "Moran? I thought he was dead."
Sherlock looked at the photos, then back at her. "No." he said firmly. "They're old photos."
She looked to John for confirmation, and he nodded. No need to worry her further, he thought. But he knew Mrs Hudson was smart, a lot smarter than she let on; and when she left the room, there was no mistaking the tremor in her hands.
"Lestrade, it's one o'clock in the morning. What do you want?"
"You're the one who told me to call you as soon as - "
"- there was another break-in! Text me the address, I'll be there."
A/N: Chances of an update next week are pretty shaky. I've already written the next chapter, but it's crucial plot-wise and I need to make sure I get it right. Also, I have two almost life-alteringly important exams on the 21st and the 27th. On the plus side, I'll have absolutely nothing to do after that, so my update frequency should increase!