~xXx~
I want to solve the problem. Our problem. The Final Problem. It's going to start very soon, Sherlock. The Fall. But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination.
Sherlock scowled, throwing his rubber ball against the wall once more. It bounded back like a spring, and slapped against the skin of his palm. He threw it again and again and again, the bounces becoming the tick in his own personal world of time. The Problem. The Final Problem.
John.
Sherlock glanced over to where John sat, typing furiously on his laptop. This should've felt normal—them here in the flat, absorbed in whatever preoccupied them at the moment—but it didn't. This was as far from normal as Sherlock had ever felt. And it was driving him mad.
Moran's question didn't make sense. It didn't. Sherlock had been a self-proclaimed 'high-functioning sociopath' his whole life. He'd never loved anyone. Not his mother or father. Certainly not his brother. Unless subdued hatred had somehow managed to garner itself another definition without his knowing.
Be that as it may, he…he did know that he cared about John, more than he ever had about any other person he'd ever encountered. He knew that life without John was miserable, and that it was something he'd never electively put himself through again. He knew that John fascinated him in a way no one ever had before. He knew the way John smiled, and how his left eyelid drooped a bit on the left side, and how he always stood up so straight in hopes that the newspapers wouldn't call him short anymore. He knew that—Sherlock frowned—he knew that kissing John had done strange things to his body. But those things weren't love. He could've gathered such a collection of information about anyone. Anyone in the world. Anyone he wanted.
So then, why did he only want John?
"I'm ready to talk about it," Sherlock said abruptly.
John's typing stopped. Slowly, he peeked at Sherlock over the top of his laptop, the creases on his forehead multiplying. "I asked you ten minutes ago if you wanted to talk and you said no."
"Well it's not ten minutes ago anymore."
Sighing, John closed his laptop and made his way over to his chair. He dropped down into it, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. "We don't have to talk about it, Sherlock."
"I'm aware."
"Lestrade has Moran's confession for two murders now, and strong evidence for a third. That's more than enough to—"
"That's not the point, John," Sherlock interjected.
John looked at him then. "Then what is?"
"You. Me." Sherlock gestured vaguely between them. "Us."
John scoffed, his head turning so that he could look out what had once been the far window, now a sheet of plastic that rippled in the wind. The city was bright and alive with sound beyond the sanction of their flat, though Sherlock didn't know how. Everything should have stopped. "Sherlock," John said softly, "there is no us."
Sherlock felt the words like a blow to the chest. "What are you talking about?"
"How can there be? This morning, you told me that," he paused, his hand raising to cover his mouth and his brows pulling together. "You told me that the past ten years of my life have been a sham. That Moriarty—that he groomed me like a damned dog to be with you. None of it was real."
"That's not true, John. Not now."
"Now?" John snapped, his eyes moving to Sherlock's in a flash. "How can you talk of now? There is no now, Sherlock! These feelings I have for you—whatever the hell they are—how am I supposed to believe in them? How am I supposed to be with you and not wonder if you're thinking the exact same thing I am?"
Sherlock blinked. "Which is what?"
"That it's all a bloody lie!"
John's body had gone tense—the muscles in his shoulders were bunched and his jaw was twitching. Sherlock studied him for a long moment before leaning forward in his chair. "Give me your hand," he said.
"What for?" John asked, his eyes still sharp as broken glass.
"I'd like to see something."
"See what?"
Sherlock sighed impatiently. "Give me your hand or don't, John. I don't want to argue about it."
John pressed his lips together firmly, but leaned forward nevertheless. He extended his right hand, which Sherlock took with his left. Skin slid against skin, and Sherlock's fingertips seemed to absorb the feeling of every last molecule. He turned John's hand over so that John's palm was facing upright, cradled delicately in Sherlock's grasp. With his right hand, Sherlock brushed the line of his wrist, trailing slowly upwards to splay out John's fingers. He could hear John's breathing quicken, and felt his own breath respond in kind.
But why? How many hands had he touched in his life? It didn't make sense for John's to be so different.
But they were. Somehow…they were.
Sherlock looked up at John through a veil of lashes. The doctor was close enough that Sherlock could see the tiny flecks of gold in his irises. "Does this not feel real to you, John? Doesn't it feel…right?"
"Sherlock…" John's voice was barely a whisper.
"Doesn't it?"
"That's not fair."
Sherlock grimaced. "You think I'm trying to manipulate you?"
"I don't think you're trying to, no. But what does it matter if it feels real or it feels right? Moriarty wanted it to feel that way, didn't he? Moran said—"
"So what if Moriarty wanted it? Since when do desires have any influence over facts?"
John didn't answer.
"John," Sherlock squeezed the doctor's hand imploringly. "Have I ever lied to you."
John's eyes narrowed at him.
"You've—"
Sherlock waved him off. "Directly I mean. Have I ever directly lied to you?"
There was a long moment of silence, and Sherlock could feel John's hand aching to pull back. "In the end…when you were standing on the roof of Bart's and I was on the phone with you…" John trailed off.
The finality in John's voice sparked a deep ache in the center of Sherlock's chest. He felt like he was going to be sick.
John shook his head, pulling his hand from Sherlock's grasp. The corners of his mouth twitched down ever so slightly. "Sherlock, you don't understand. You don't understand the things I've thought about you—"
"What things have you thought about me?"
John's face went a lovely shade of scarlet. "They don't matter, Sherlock."
"For Christ's sake, John!" Sherlock stood abruptly, winding his fingers around the back of John's neck so that he couldn't back away. "It matters. It all matters. Everything we've done—everything we've been through—it can't all be for nothing. If it is…then I don't…"
John's eyes narrowed, his breaths coming in shaky puffs of air. "You don't what?"
"I don't want to come back"
"Sherlock…" John whispered. "What are you talking about?"
It was distracting somehow, having his fingers pressed so firmly against the warmth of John's neck. It was like he was caught in a dream—a dream of that night in Baskerville with John's vocal chords vibrating so beautifully against his lips. "I left you, John, because I thought I was protecting you. I lied to you because I thought you were better off this way. So if it turns out that all of this isn't real, and that you really are better off without me, then what's the point of me being here now? Why would I want to come back?"
"How can you say that?" John slid in closer, his hands wrapping around Sherlock's forearms. "All the good you do? All the people you help?"
"I don't do it for them. You know that."
"Sherlock…"
"You don't know what I was like before," Sherlock said softly. "I've never told you about it. I never could, because I was terrified. I was terrified of the way you might look at me if you knew how close to the edge I always was. I never knew it could be different. I never knew there was life beyond the answers and the rush of adrenaline."
John just stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes.
"It's not a lie, John—what's happening right here, right now. I know it, and you know it. You just don't want to admit it. What are you so scared of?"
That made John pull back slightly, but Sherlock's grip only tightened. Fear flickered across John's face. "Don't do this, Sherlock."
But Sherlock had to do it. He had to know. "You told me yesterday that you loved me. Were you lying?"
"No!"
"Did you say it out of some sort of guilt?"
Hurt flashed in John's eyes. "No! Jesus, no!"
"Then what? Why did you tell me that? What are you scared of now that you weren't then?"
"I'm scared of a lot of things, Sherlock!" John said, his voice raised and cracking around the vowels. "I'm scared that you don't want this! I'm scared that if you actually did want it, you'd just use me as one of your experiments! I'm scared that it won't last! I'm scared that it would ruin everything we've built together! I'm scared that one day you'll wake up and finally realize how completely and utterly boring I am, and you'll want nothing more to do with me!" He cut off, embarrassment blooming across the bridge of his nose. "But most of all I'm scared of feeling the way I felt that day when I saw you fall. I can't ever feel that again, Sherlock. I can't. I won't be able to survive it."
John's skin felt hot, like silk that had sat out by the fire too long. His hair smelled like tea and dust and it was still disheveled from when he'd fallen this morning. It was too much. How could John possibly think those things. How could he not see?
Maybe for the same reasons Sherlock himself hadn't seen. Maybe John needed to hear him in a different way.
Time seemed to slow down in a very strange way. The world around them blurred around the edges, as if it existed in some parallel reality. All there was now was John—outlined in the soft pale light of London at dusk. "John," Sherlock said softly, because it was the only thing he could think to say.
He leaned forward, and he felt John's pulse spike as he realized what was happening. But by then, it was already too late. Their lips met and it was like a wave crashing against sand. For a moment, everything was completely still. Then something sparked in Sherlock's blood as John pressed back against him. The pressure. The smell. The taste. He wanted more. God, he wanted more. But he didn't know how…
John broke the kiss first, panting heavily. His fingers dug into Sherlock's arms, but at least he wasn't letting go. "Sit back down," John said, with some difficulty.
"What? Why?" Sherlock didn't want to sit down. He didn't want to move from this spot for the rest of his life.
"Just trust me will you?"
Huffing, Sherlock sat back down on his chair, but he refused to release his hold on John. Fortunately enough, John seemed more than willing to come down with him. John settled himself on Sherlock's lap, his knees bent and his calves pressing tightly against the outside of Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock didn't normally like having people this close, but right now it didn't seem so bad. He could get used to John's weight on him like this.
John's hands slid up Sherlock's chest, pushing him back against the chair. He leaned forward, and Sherlock felt only a moment's hesitating breath before John's lips were on his once more. They moved ever so gently against his own, and it wasn't long before Sherlock realized that John trying to guide him.
Sherlock moved his own lips, trying his best to mimic what—oh! John's tongue slid across Sherlock's bottom lip, and really, that was unexpectedly pleasant. John did it again and the same bright sensation spread over Sherlock like a spark of light. Sherlock parted his lips, hungry for more, and John complied. Their mouths slid together languidly, their tongues making their lips wet and slick. It was so strange how a single muscle could create physical responses like that. Every time John's tongue found his own, a sharp jolt would fly down Sherlock's spine. And then John's teeth caught Sherlock's lip, and God, he thought his nerves were about to burst through his skin. A rush traveled over him, and it felt like he was sinking into a hot spring.
The warm weight of John's body against his own was vastly becoming an oddly pleasant issue. Suddenly, touching just his neck wasn't enough. Sherlock wanted to touch all of him—every hidden part that no one had ever bothered to touch. He wanted to pull John into him until he couldn't tell where they separated. His fingers slid under John's jumper to glide along the skin underneath. John rocked headily against him, making Sherlock's brain spin. He barely registered John working at the buttons of his shirt until it was already halfway open.
John broke the kiss abruptly, cursing under his breath as one of Sherlock's buttons got caught in a stray loop of thread. After only a few seconds of laboring, the button didn't seem to matter anymore. John ripped his way down the line, his head dipping down to bite at the line of Sherlock's collarbone.
A noise escaped Sherlock then that he'd never made before in his life. It was low and guttural, and he felt his eyes press shut. That was even better. Cutting off his visual stimulation allowed him to experience John's mouth without interruption.
"Jesus, Sherlock," John hissed. "You're perfect. You're bloody perfect and you don't even know it." He sank his teeth into Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock gasped in helpless ecstasy. "Tell me no one else has done this to you. Tell me I'm the first."
The first thing that escaped Sherlock's mouth was a strangled moan. "Of course you're the first. God—John—I…"
Then John rocked his hips, and Sherlock saw stars. He was coming undone—John was unraveling him like a spool of yarn. And it was fast and hard, and they'd waiting so long. Too long. It had all built up to the point where it hurt. If Sherlock had known—if he had just seen what this could be…
This wasn't primal. This wasn't revolting. This was John. This was the man who had seen Sherlock as nobody had ever been able to see him before. And it didn't matter how, and it didn't matter why. It didn't matter that this could've been exactly what Moriarty had wanted all along because in the end it changed nothing.
John's hands slid along his ribs, his nails scraping against the skin and making Sherlock's nerves dance. "Sherlock," John breathed, his teeth sliding against Sherlock's neck as he thrust harder against him. "Jesus...Sherlock."
Sherlock groaned, sweat slithering down the line of his jaw. He pressed his hand flat against John's chest, wanting to feel the thundering beat of his heart. How had he lived not knowing this? How had he lived not knowing what the curve of John's hip felt like against his thumb? How had he lived not knowing the sweet, tortuous pressure of John's lips against his neck? How had he lived without this ravenous sliding of bodies and rush of endorphins that made his blood sing. If all of it hadn't been real before—if all of it had only been grey lines and ghosting edges—then Sherlock wanted nothing to do with reality. He wanted more of this—whatever it was. He wanted more—God—more delicious friction, more heat, more John.
John's movement was erratic now. He slammed against Sherlock in feverish waves, cries of Sherlock's name breaking over his lips. A fire was beginning to well, somewhere deep down. Sherlock could feel it, growing and growing with each sharp jolt of John's hips. And he couldn't help but feel like they were traveling towards something—strapped together on this train and headed straight over a cliff. God, the rush. Sherlock's fingers curled around John's sides, because all he could do was hang on now.
"God, Sherlock!"
And Sherlock felt it—a great tremor shot through John's body, his back arching so hard Sherlock thought his spine might snap. It ran through John's body like electricity, grounding itself deep in Sherlock's bones and taking hold. John's teeth sank into his neck, and it was like an explosion. It burst in Sherlock's chest, and radiated out in hard pulsing waves over his limbs. Hot, sticky fluid burst out of him, and for a moment there was nothing else but warm breath against his cheek, and soft hands against his shoulders.
John laughed in short, breathy pants. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. God I feel like a fourteen year old. I can't believe..."
Sherlock shook his head, quite sure that controlling his vocal chords was currently beyond his capability.
"Are you alright?" John leaned back to look at him, his pupils still blown wide. "I didn't...I didn't go too far did I?"
Sherlock looked up at John, and something swelled just beneath his fourth rib. He realized, after a moment, that this was what Moran had meant. This feeling that had existed from the moment Sherlock had laid eyes John, that he'd never been able to name. This was the feeling that existed between the lines—somewhere beyond the lens of a microscope, and the bottom of a beaker. But this was still truth. This was still real.
Love.
"John," Sherlock felt his voice break around the word. He pulled John to him, burying his face into the warmth of his neck.
John's hands slid up to tangle in his curls, holding him tight. "Is this alright, Sherlock? Please tell me it's alright."
"Forgive me, John," Sherlock whispered, feeling as if he was a liquid thing about to fall apart. "Stay. Please...stay."
Sherlock felt John drag in a deep breath—he could hear the air rattle in his lungs. "You know I'm not going to leave. I could never leave."
