AN: Thank you so much for the follows and favorites. Apologies for any grammar errors. On to Part II!
*Previously...
"John," Sherlock warned, "Why don't you want my help?"
"I don't know," John admitted, crinkling his face up before dropping his eyes to the collar of Sherlock's suit jacket.
The sound of the inclement weather swelled between them, the dull roar of the rain, the individual drops pattering random, tinny notes off the gutters, the mournful whistle and moan of the blustery winds against the brick and glass, the protracted grumbling of the thunderheads underscoring all other sounds, both comforting and galvanizing at once. It seemed to speak directly to the contest of wills brewing between the two men. John must have come to the same conclusion as Sherlock, for both men locked eyes in the same instant.
Sherlock observed his flatmate with sharp eyes, and replaced the flannel in the bowl. "Do you harbor...amorous feelings towards me?" Sherlock said, his voice even. Both men regarded each other: Sherlock with some trepidation, and John with absolutely no expression at all.
John abruptly threw his head back and laughed, the booming sound surprising them both. The doctor clapped a hand to his bandages with a wince, but flashed Sherlock a wry grin. The outcome where John laughed good-naturedly about his sexuality being called into question instead of closing off or exploding was an eventuality Sherlock had not foreseen. He was far too deep in uncharted (and unwelcome) waters to confidently deduce anything other than what showed on John's face. It threw him.
"Clearly, everyone thinks so. What do you think? Honestly?" John said, the hint of amusement in his eyes belying the frown scripted in every corner of his face.
At the other man's words, the consulting detective became very aware of the intimate way he was leaning towards John, one hand steadied on his good shoulder. John's skin was very warm. He withdrew his hand and plopped it uselessly in his lap, bewildered.
His friend watched him with pity for a moment before heaving yet another sigh. "It's not like that, Sherlock. Look-" he closed his mouth, swallowed, and glanced at the wallpaper for inspiration.
John suddenly looked older. He beckoned for Sherlock's hand, and grasped it firmly when the other man slowly placed his palm on John's.
"It's not complicated. To me, anyway. But people love to complicate simple matters. Have to slap a neat label on everything," he drawled pensively. He glanced sidelong at the younger man. " It's not anything sweeping or grand. It's just the way I feel. I don't even know how you'll take it."
Sherlock was a statue perched on the cushions, tuned to John's voice. He was more curious than apprehensive about John's mysterious confession. It had been a chip on the other man's shoulder since the (now) infamous Study in Pink. This unspoken thing was the last chasm between them, and even Sherlock had known better than to pry. He didn't harbor a burning desire to label what John was to him, what he represented, and so had studiously avoided it. He nodded stiffly.
"Right, there's no good way to start these things," John muttered, squeezing Sherlock's hand unconsciously, his eyes a storm of apprehension.
"I-well-I love you, Sherlock, in the strongest way that I can muster. I don't know how. I didn't think it was possible to love someone this much. Let alone another man," he said with flat disbelief. "If you'd told me two years ago that I'd be sharing a flat with a self-proclaimed sociopath, and that on top of assisting him in the madness of his life's work, I'd take a bullet for him just as soon as I'd wash his socks, I'd think you'd gone round the bend. Absolutely bonkers." His words were soft yet compelling in the darkened flat. The timbre of his voice indicated that this was a topic oft revisited, likely during the nights when memories of the war and other, darker things made sleep a foregone conclusion.
He glanced up from Sherlock's lapels, his eyes gentle, a rueful half-smile on his lips. "I'd follow you anywhere. God knows I shouldn't harp on your brilliance-you're enough of an arrogant berk as it is-but it's a kind of force over me. Like your bloody nicotine patches. I'd do any number of mental, dangerous things in your company-have done them. You were the only one who saw I could be...useful again," his voice wavered slightly on the last word, "even if I'm just your blogger." Tears had not gathered in his eyes, but they were evident in his voice. Sherlock marveled that even here, in the midst of such a disclosure, John could spare a pass at self-deprecation. In a rare moment of sympathy, he cursed that both of them were so incurably British, but remained silent. John did not seem finished.
John paused to draw breath, and seemed to come back to himself. He shifted on the couch, now refusing to meet Sherlock's silvery gaze. "And I just turned our flat into a confessional. Jesus. It's just..." He visibly gathered himself, "People's attempts to categorize our relationship frustrates me. Because I don't care what we are, or if it's normal, or appropriate."
John's voice was a fierce whisper, the sound of it coiling in Sherlock's chest, warming him. He had gone very still, and it took all of his control not to disconnect, retreat to his mind palace until the awkwardness had passed. Leave it to John-marvelous, emotive, unbelievably ordinary John-to be eloquent and blunt in the same moment. Instead of being swallowed in the ensuing silence-the fate of many an emotional declaration made to Sherlock-the words hung between them, near-tangible, drawing the emotional tension not to a fever pitch, but closer to a quiet, crackling roar. He honestly had not known that he sought anything from their friendship until this very moment, but he found himself agreeing with John's plain words. But where to go now?
"I love you, and I don't even want to shag you." John mumbled, bemused. He darted a sheepish glance at his flatmate. "Oh God. I said that out loud." He pulled his hand from Sherlock's and ran it over the back of his neck, a characteristic tell of his embarrassment.
"Platonic affection," Sherlock stated.
Disappointment flashed across John's face for just an instant-long enough for Sherlock to realize that this was not the reply John wanted after his declaration-a disclosure that, from John's perspective, was tantamount to admitting they were "a couple." With a mental sigh, Sherlock shut out the analytical data streaming through his brain, and marshalled his incipient emotions. John had revealed his ardent-affection? love?-for Sherlock, and the detective had glossed over it.
A wave of distaste engulfed him, and he saw that if John was to be assuaged, he must deal in kind, heart with heart. What was Lestrade fond of saying when he felt overwrought? Not my division?
"Yes. Bit more than that, maybe. I suppose that's the only term we've got," John was saying slowly, "Though the concept's rather dead at the moment."
John was still deep in thought, mirroring Sherlock's own sudden retreat inwards. Knowing John was moved by emotional appeals and legitimately using them without an ulterior motive would be a first. His personal reluctance to speak on that matter was inconsequential, faced now with his current dilemma sitting opposite him in a cautious, vulnerable snit. He glanced desperately to his violin in the corner, noted the shadows draped across the floor and walls, shrinking the enclosed space of their living room smaller still, the pair of them enveloped in the fuzzy halo of the desk lamp. Even the bloody flat was forcing them closer. He dismissed the jangling nerves crawling along his spine with vicious force. Absurd though it seemed, John needed reassurance.
"Like Frodo and Sam?" Sherlock asked suddenly.
"What?" John said with disbelief. "Well, that's a bit grey, you know. On purpose. But yeah, something like-You've really read Lord of the Rings?" he said, interrupting himself.
"I am prone to whimsy on occasion," Sherlock replied.
John broke into a broad grin. "Good thing it's rare," he said with mock seriousness.
Thunder cracked around the flat, loud enough to rattle the few dishes in the cupboard. Both men became absorbed in the maelstrom of detritus swirling past the windows of Baker Street-leaves, receipts, paper stubs, several parking tickets.
"There are conflicting classifications for a subject so open to conjecture," Sherlock said, launching into lecture mode, mindful to inflect his voice higher than what John called his 'I'm-going-to-deduce-every-last-personal-iota-about-you' tone. "But most theories reduce love to four or five categories: Storge, Phileo, Eros, Agape, and Lust/Desire, though that last one is contested, as Lewis didn't include it in his original exposition."
John snapped his head around to stare at Sherlock, plainly astonished. "You've read C.S. Lewis?"
"It was an elective at university, part of 'Foundations of Modern Christianity', though 'Historical Fiction' would have been a more appropriate description."
"And you took that willingly?" He had never seen John more flabbergasted. "All the forensics and anatomy courses full? Nautical Archaeology not available?"
"Know thy enemy," Sherlock returned, smirking just enough to show the barb was mostly harmless.
"Only you would know about the academic side of love without doing the fieldwork," John said wryly.
"Why would you assume I haven't done the legwork?"
John contemplated that. "Have you?"
Sherlock stared hard at the ex-soldier, sifting as much data through his mind as he could, considering. "No," he said finally, voice soft. "Never could spare the time."
Silence yawned between them, and Sherlock could feel his opportunity slipping away. A lecture? That's all the great Sherlock Holmes could produce when faced with a difficult subject? He possessed enough social intuition to understand that this moment, once gone, could never be broached again, and whatever he had with John would change regardless. He had no intention of discovering what that change might be if he failed.
"Loyalty," Sherlock said, gamely pressing on.
"Beg pardon?"
"It's loyalty between us. Phileo."
John pinked slightly as he considered his friend's words."Yes..."
"You said it was more than platonic love, John, but you didn't want to shag me," Sherlock elaborated, his tone impatient. The slang sounded off in his posh accent.
John blushed outright at his own words. "Yeah, regretting that, now-"
Sherlock made another impatient noise, louder than before, and unexpectedly settled his hands on either side of John's face, pushing past trivial things like personal space and decorum. "No, you idiot. It's loyalty. The rarest condition our savage species is capable of producing. The hardest attachment to foster and maintain when there is no romantic or familial basis for it. There was no pre-existing emotional foundation for-" He trailed off and looked at John in wonder, the full import of John's confession finally breaking through the last retaining wall surrounding his mind palace. John was similarly gobsmacked at Sherlock's incredible leap of emotional reasoning. So unlike him, and yet...not. Leave it to the world's only consulting detective to grow a heart within a single evening.
"The rarity of such a connection is...well, I had little hope of experiencing it for myself, because it must be freely given," Sherlock continued, voice thin from the tempest churning in his gut. He grinned at his speechless friend. "And you gave it to me within 48 hours of our first meeting. No strings," he said, brows drawn together in comprehension, beautiful eyes full of awe.
John's face grew hot again. Sherlock's naked expression, that elusive empathy so rarely found laid bare. It was wonderful, but strange. "It's not a logical equation. It's just what a friend would do," he said hoarsely, unsure of the route this conversation was taking.
"No, John. Only you-uniquely John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers-would do such a stupid thing. For a man who deserves no such measure of devotion."
The doctor's eyes snapped up to meet the detective's. "You make it sound so extraordinary."
Sherlock's gaze had softened to something John had never seen before. "It is, imbecile."
Maybe it was the empathy in his eyes, or the insult that still carried a bit of a sting-it was just so Sherlock. John yanked the man forward, wrapping his arms around him, coat and all, ignoring the sting and throb from his side. The lanky man stiffened, but John only sighed deeply into the pocket pressed against his face, and tightened his grip. After several prolonged seconds, Sherlock's arms encircled John, one around his shoulders, the other cupping the back of John's head. The gesture was tender, unguarded, and so natural that it was the last straw for John's stiff upper lip. Tears spilled onto Sherlock's jacket, and right then, he didn't give two flips if Mycroft, Lestrade, or every person in the world crowded into their flat to stare with disapproval as he cried like a child onto his best friend.
Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat, something approaching a purr, and found that this contact with John, far from fostering discomfort, was nice. Pleasurable, even. It felt right. He tented his fingers up against John's nape, into the hairline, and palpated the base of his skull in slow circles, anatomical cross-sections flitting across his mind's eye in slideshow format. John sobbed audibly at his friend's touch, the sound suppressed by Sherlock's coat, before his shoulders began to shake with mute weeping. Sensing this would go on for an indeterminable length of time, Sherlock leaned back carefully, centering their combined weight into a more comfortable angle.
Whether this unique episode was prompted by simple exhaustion or the result of more meaningful things boiling over was immaterial for the moment. He didn't understand this facet of John, not precisely, not like he knew the countless routines and procedures that ran continuously on his hard drive and prompted his observations. The confrontation at the pool, though, was a paradigm shift, the moment when his withered heart had clambered into his mouth at the sight of John wired into 15 bars of cemtex, laser sights dancing merrily across the vest, that quiet acceptance in his dark eyes, the smooth acknowledgement of his imminent death when he'd made a gamble to buy Sherlock an exit. All of this after he'd delivered his "don't make people into heroes" line earlier that day, which, in retrospect, was the most pointed sort of irony. John was a much better foil if an element of mystery remained, some aspect of him that Sherlock could not unravel, not with all the time and nicotine patches the Holmes fortune could purchase.
John began to pull away after a few minutes, mumbling something that was, in all likelihood, an apology, and Sherlock watched, fascinated, as his arms moved, arresting his friend gently, pressing his head back down to his shoulder. It was awkward, yes. Sherlock had no doubt John shared that sentiment. But it was also necessary. An alternative would not do. It was not acceptable.
The consulting detective could count on one hand the number of times that someone had touched him with anything resembling affection in the past few years, and Lestrade holding his hand in hospital while he recovered from his first real overdose probably did not count. And even then, the Detective Inspector had probably feared for his job as well as his life. He had only just 'met' Mycroft a month prior to Sherlock's overdose, in much the same manner that John had first 'met' the elder Holmes.
"I-I care for you, John," Sherlock finally managed thirty minutes later, still overcome with the wash of foreign emotions. "Well, maybe more than care, but-"
"Sherlock, stop," John said into the collar of the Belstaff. "There's no need to reciprocate. I'm just relieved, honestly, that you haven't kicked me out of the flat."
"Whatever for?" Sherlock scoffed, pushing him back to look at him properly.
"For...before." John's tone was a weird mixture of relief and discomfort. "Err, I know this isn't quite your arena. The emotional fiddly bits and such."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, John. Nearly a year spent in my company, and all I get is 'emotional fiddly bits' ?"
His blogger only looked sheepish and shrugged. He seemed to become aware that Sherlock still held his shoulders tightly, and the two men were nearly nose to nose (if not for the height difference). The flush returned to his neck, eyes darting up to capture Sherlock's for just a second, gauging whether this was still acceptable.
Sherlock was absorbed in a last, genuine effort to articulate his thoughts. It was very well for John to be dismissive-he was adept at speaking his heart. It rolled from his lips with no effort at all, barely any thought process. 'Embracing those chemical defects may be good for you,' John had told him once with a cheeky smile. Oh, how little John knew on that matter. Sherlock had endured an endless parade of banal psychologists as a child, each one striving to make any number of diagnoses stick-everything from Asperger's to psychopathy-each doctor harrumphing and eyeballing him with displeasure, like he was a peculiar piece of pottery that had eluded identification. This, more than anything, destroyed any notion he had about adults "having it all figured out." Father's incessant quest for a label for his son's perceived oddities had not endeared him to Sherlock. He recognized, grudgingly, that this was one issue at the root of the discord between he and Mycroft. Stupid, dull, perfect Mycroft.
He wasn't a sociopath, strictly speaking. Nor was he-Sherlock mentally sneered-suffering from a disorder. It was the why of it all he found so infuriating. Why did any of that rubbish matter? It was a logical move; the intimidation factor that came with identifying himself as a sociopath opened far more avenues than "consulting detective" ever could. That he was perhaps missing a crucial angle from which to approach The Work had never occurred to him, not until he had seen John standing in his black jacket by the police car after the death of the cabbie, looking the picture of innocence. The full import of John's mundane yet singular personality, what it could mean, was suddenly made manifest in that one, blinding moment. John was important somehow. He should stay. Obviously.
"Sherlock?"
Abruptly, he snapped his gaze up from the papers all over the rug to John's eyes. He could see his triumph reflected back at him in their tired, chocolate depths. For John's sake, he would try to be-emotive. He mentally shook himself and cleared his throat meaningfully before settling fully onto the leg twisted beneath him, and gripping John's forearms officiously through the ruined jumper. John glanced down, a soft smile creeping across his face when he returned his gaze to Sherlock.
"I'm rubbish at this. Look, the point is-you are my John," he said firmly.
John gave him that fond, lopsided grin and chuffed a laugh through his nose. "Yes, I suppose I am." He raised an eyebrow at his flatmate before gently disengaging himself and slouching backwards, allowing his head to loll back against the couch armrest, taking care not to put pressure on his shoulder. "A bit possessive, eh?"
"You're mine," Sherlock repeated, a hint of puzzlement in his voice. How could this be difficult for John to understand? It was the obvious conclusion to this-this chaotic mess of a conversation.
"So I heard."
Sherlock began to clean up the supplies on the table, his mind a tangle of apprehension and doubt. He was not accustomed to floundering through conversation, and it was exceedingly uncomfortable. He loathed relinquishing control of his emotional fortitude (such as it was), and every passing second spent in ambiguity only heightened his anxiety. Just when he was seconds from excusing himself to go dig in his mattress for a nicotine patch, John blinked his eyes open, fixing his friend with an annoyed expression.
"I can practically hear your synapses blazing from here, Sherlock," John said drily. "You know my answer, don't you? Do you have to hear it spelled out?"
The younger man just stared at him with guarded anxiety.
John shook his head in consternation. "If this wasn't such a watershed moment for you, Sherlock, I'd just let you hang, and figure it out yourself. You and your brilliant intellect, ego the size of the London Eye." He met the pale eyes that had never left his face. "Of course I'm your's, you daft git. I could never be anyone else's. Is that answer enough, or do you need a ring?"
The consulting detective froze, inwardly racing through the corridors of his mind palace towards John's room there, though it was expanding into more of a proper wing now, ceilings stretching upwards, windows yawning wide as the rooms expanded and grew doors and inner passages.
"It was a joke, Sherlock," John said flatly. "I have no intention of marrying you. Even if you magically changed into a woman, had more money than you already do coming out your arse, and Mycroft was your personal butler, or something." John barked out a short laugh, picked up his mug and peered inside. "What the fuck did you put in my tea? Veritaserum?"
"Fictional, John. The closest match would be sodium pentothal, and even if administered unknowingly, the results are dubious at best."
"You have absolutely no sense of humor."
Sherlock pursed his lips in reply. "You have said you don't appreciate it."
"True," John agreed. "It's usually at the expense of someone else."
Sherlock sniffed and changed the subject."You're sure the shoulder can wait until tomorrow? Were you not just telling me-loudly-the opposite last week?"
"Puncture wounds can wait a few hours if they're small."
"Or if you're surly."
John sent him a withering glare, but there was no heat behind it. "When I was on Bontrager's tail as he shot up that fire escape ladder, he kicked me in the chest when I grabbed his leg. Stumbled back into the opposite building's ladder I guess, or what was left of it. Must've been a broken strut. Nothing major."
"Hmm. Shouldn't I drag you to the washroom anyway?" Sherlock continued. "I will not be pleased if I'm forced to suffer through one of your emotional paroxysms tomorrow because your 'small wound' has turned a curious shade of red."
"It's fine, Sherlock. Really. Can't I grab a few hours sleep before I deal with that? Why am I even bargaining with you-"
The consulting detective sat back on his haunches, thinking. "I could suture it. Molly taught me."
"She did?" John said, surprised. "I'm impressed by her fortitude."
"It was after that case in the abandoned tube line, when I was injured and you stitched the cuts on my shin," Sherlock said with a petulant air.
"They were more like lacerations, but yeah, I remember," John said drily. "You whinged all night long, and refused to take paracetamol. Anyway, this won't need stitches right now." He eyed Sherlock seriously as he gave his shoulder an experimental roll. "But thanks for the offer."
Sherlock stared at John for one long moment before nodding. He gestured at John's trousers, his manner a bit too casual, too brittle. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"
He guided the waistband carefully over the gigantic bruise, and off, and left the jeans in a pile beside the sofa, not waiting for John to decide if he would withstand one more invasion into his personal space.
"What am I looking at?" Sherlock asked, working the side of John's pants down past the hip, enough to give him access to treat the wound while still remaining chaste. He was grateful to allow his mind to focus and begin accumulating, sorting, distilling, and analyzing once more. He'd seen this sort of contusion before. Molly had not appreciated the comparison between her beet salad and the livor mortis of the car accident victim.
John peered under his arm, eyes suddenly glassy and shining in the lamp light. "Just a hematoma, not ecchymosis. Really swollen. Symptoms similar to a fracture, especially on articulations. Like a hip," John drowsed. "What did you put in my tea? Seriously."
"Nothing," Sherlock replied.
John screwed his eyes shut, the effort of recalling information almost beyond him. "The vessels have to repair themselves. Basically loads of pain through the healing process. Have to watch for compartment syndrome, I think? Nothing to really treat. Jus' time."
"Nothing at all?"
"The usual. Rest, Ice...Compression? I forget the rest. Hmmm."
Sherlock hummed in agreement, smiling slightly, grateful that John was now very close to sleep. He finished cleaning the surface of the bruise and slid off the couch slowly, so as not to jostle his patient, and retrieved the only thing currently in their freezer-a bag of edamame-and wrapped it in a clean tea towel before returning to the couch and settling the bag over the vivid contusion. John mumbled something and ground his face deeper into the union jack pillow. Sherlock reached down to smooth John's hair before catching himself and snatching his hand back with a scowl. He picked up his mug and drained the cold tea to distract himself from the almost faux pas, and noticed goose flesh on John's skin.
Shaking his head in consternation (it was not cold in the flat), Sherlock retrieved the duvet from his bedroom and spread it over John, tucking it around his body with perhaps more fastidiousness than was necessary.
He fished John's mobile from his breast pocket (appropriated while the other man had been unconscious) and fired off a text to Sarah explaining the night's events, hoping that John would not require a forceful reminder to get his shoulder treated in the morning. He remembered to include an apology for the lateness of the hour just before he hit 'send'. Apparently, most people thought 3 am was too late to communicate. Most people were stupid.
"Sherlock?" John whispered, voice thick with sleep.
"Yes?"
"Did you...slip me...an opioid?"
"I'm not apologizing for it, if that's what you're looking for. You can hardly expect two apologies on the same night, John. Really."
"Sorry for...y'know."
"No need to be sorry, John. It's quite alright," Sherlock responded, keeping his voice light.
John's hand snaked out from where he lay bundled under the heavy duvet, groping the air until he found Sherlock's sleeve.
"Meant it. Everything I said," John mumbled, fingers tightening in the fabric. "Important to me."
Sherlock regarded the hand gripping the cuff of his shirt.
Ragged cuticles. Uncharacteristic. Stress.
Slight flaking of skin in thenar space. Dry air in the surgery.
Scuffed knuckles. Case. Asphalt.
Slight tremor. Undesignated. Too many variables.
The familiar prickle of displeasure that crawled across his skin from physical contact was wholly absent. John seemed to have deactivated that protocol. And if he knew John, the change was permanent. Curiously, Sherlock felt calm, sated by the intellectual stimulation of the case, and perhaps other things he could only roughly acknowledge before shoving them into the basement of the mind palace. John's hand upon his sleeve seemed to right some wrong that had heretofore gone unnoticed. It was more than any number of trite greeting card declarations; those slovenly, base sentiments other people expressed were just veneer, a saccharine gloss that sparkled obscenely and held no real weight. He considered the weak but resolute grip of his friend.
He was unable to say those three important words that John had entrusted to him, not in this moment, but he was confident John had accurately perceived his sentiments regardless.
"I'd be lost without my blogger," he said, deep voice pitched low, and covered John's hand with his own.
AN: One of the main reasons I am deeply taken by Gatiss and Moffat's take on Sherlock and John is that their nuanced, singular relationship defies simple categorization. The attraction of two souls is nothing new, but society has unfortunately tethered this with the idea that two soulmates must also share a sexual attraction. Love comes in so many different colors and forms, and for me, true phileo love is both powerful and humbling. I can only hope we will be rewarded with more moments in series 3 (and series 4. I can't believe I could type that. GLEE).
Thank you ever so much for the favorites, comments, and follows! This fandom is full of lovely, supportive people. :) I hope everyone enjoyed this! It took me several months to shape this into what I wanted. I'll be working on a very different take on the ubiquitous Reichenbach Reunion next. Look for that soon!