A/N AHAHA. AT LAST, THE LONG-AWAITED CHAPTER COMES. Ahem. I suppose this is the climax of this little journey of fluffy angst, so I won't keep you with the AN. But allow me to say, thank you so much, reviewers! Last chapter had the most comments yet. Keep it up! :D
Thanks to DespisedByThePluralOfMoose (LOVE your username ;D), Call me Mad, Johnlockian, IamSHERlocked4ever, and Sherwhotalian
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
[9/10]
John didn't want to get up that morning. It was, after all, a Saturday, and there was really nothing at all that demanded his attention, so what was the point of rising from bed? He was tired. It couldn't be that much of a crime to laze for another hour... or two... or three.
The sunlight, however, seemed to be feeling particularly unkind this particular morning, as it slanted rather mercilessly though the gaps between the edges of the window and its curtain. I'll have to buy something that actually covers the damn thing up, John thought dully, halfheartedly pulling his blanket up to his forehead. It was suffocating, though, and soon he had to once more emerge for air. A gritty taste was filling his mouth, and his stomach had a vague hollowness to it- the beginnings of the negative effects that came with sleeping in late, undoubtedly. And it was only about half an hour past his usual rising time. Any later would probably result in day-long crabbiness.
With a sigh, he forced himself to straighten up and run a hand through his mussed-up hair. His shoulder gave a slight twinge at the small exertion, and he let out a low groan, forcing himself not to flop back down but instead to pull himself out from under the covers, wincing at the chill of fresh air. The day felt fairly open, for the most part... maybe he could finally get that grocery shopping done that he intended to. It would also be potentially nice to head down to a park and walk around for a bit, stretch his legs... maybe Sherlock would even come with him, if he suggested there just may be some sort of murder there. It wouldn't be a lie; there were always possibilities, no?
A humorous smile tinged his lips at the knowledge that he'd have to go to such measures just in order to request his flat mate go for a stroll with him. Most people wouldn't need the promise of homicide. Of course... Sherlock was probably the farthest thing from most people that there was.
Well, whether or not he was usually, the detective was currently in an extremely commonplace situation- frantic indecision. You said you'd do it, he reminded himself angrily. You promised that you would today- putting it off will only make it harder, just do it, just do it... the prospect of holding back, of keeping his confession a secret, was so tempting, though. Just imagining such caused him to relax a bit more, though such a sensation instantly dissipated when he was brought back to reality.
Come on, what's the worst that could happen?
He could be alarmed enough to move out.
If that happened, Sherlock, quite simply, didn't know what he'd be able to do. I can't lose him. But John wouldn't do something like that. Would he? No, no way. He would stay, however awkwardly. He had to.
But his resolve was slipping more and more as the minutes slipped by. Why did John have to choose today to be out of bed late? It made everything a thousand times harder, the difficulty of his intended action increasing exponentially with each passing minute until it seemed to be a near impossibility.
You're just going to have to do it. You're just going to have to say the words.
I don't want to.
That doesn't matter.
Fascinating, the concept of his own wants quite simply not mattering. A bit difficult to wrap his mind around, too. He was the center of his own life; shouldn't things revolve around him- like the Earth around the sun or whatever the hell it was that John was always going on about?
But I'm not the center of my own life.
Not anymore.
Somehow, inexplicably, John had become more important than his very self. How did that even work? It didn't make any sense. He was himself. He saw from no one else's perspective- his life was centered around him. But... it wasn't. Confusion was creeping into his mind like a thick, bitter liquid, and he distracted it by raising a hand silently to a pane of the window he faced, feeling the frosted chill of the approaching winter against the pale skin of his palm. A gust of wind rattled the glass, and people lining the streets grasped at their hats and coats, holding them in place. So many men and women, each with minds full to the brim of hopes, intentions, worries, lies, secrets... each was a world unto themselves. Did they have people that they loved? If so, did they realize it? Did they realize it as vividly as he-
A creaking of stairs warned him of John's approach, and he stepped back from the window, turning just in time to meet the sleepy-eyed gaze of the former army doctor. He had his bathrobe on and walked with a slight limp, reflecting his exhaustion- when he was only half-awake, he still favored his "uninjured" leg out of habit, though it was no longer remotely necessary. Sherlock suddenly felt overdressed, not being in his night clothes- though it was nearly eight o' clock, after all. Any reasonable person would be up and donning a proper outfit, surely.
"Morning," John mumbled, making his way to the kitchen, where he opened the cupboard door and reached in almost thoughtlessly for a cup and a teabag.
Sherlock nodded mutely in response, knowing that the action wouldn't be seen by the man who had his back turned to him. The detective's heart was beating unreasonably fast, and it took him a moment to realize that every muscle in his body was incredibly stiff- he didn't even bother trying to relax them. Such an action would surely be a futile effort. Instead, he forced his lips to frame words, just getting them out, as quickly as he could.
"I have something to tell you."
"Hm?" John, apparently sensing some of the tension in Sherlock's voice, glanced over his shoulder concernedly. "You all right?"
"Fine."
"All right, then. Is this a long thing you have to say?"
"I suppose so. Why?"
"Just let me get something to drink first." He filled the teakettle absentmindedly and set it on the stove top, flicking on the burner and settling down into a chair at the table. "I can't think properly this early in the morning," he added as a sort of explanation, then reached across the cluttered surface of the table and retrieved a newspaper, shaking it out. It was covered with multiple pale brown semi-circles where mugs of tea had been set on it, but he didn't seem to notice or care.
Sherlock nodded, once more to himself, and glanced around the flat for a few moments. He took a step and a half towards his chair and sunk into it, but couldn't bear more than twenty seconds and rose again. A hand unwillingly rose to his head, slim fingers running distractedly through the silky mass of hair.
"Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"
John's voice startled him somehow, and he flinched slightly, then hastily nodded. "Of course."
"Something's obviously getting to you."
"So? It's not your problem." The retort came out rather snappishly, and Sherlock instantly wished that he could take it back. He didn't want the atmosphere to be tense- at least not for John, seeing as, on his own, that was pretty much unavoidable at this point.
"Well, excuse me," was the grumbled response, cut in two as the kettle began to whistle piercingly. A few thumps and rustles came from the kitchen, the direction of which Sherlock refused to look in, and then the plunk and plop that came with setting down a cup of hot water and throwing in a teabag, respectively. The next couple of minutes were painfully long, as he waited for John to ever-so-slowly let the herbs seep into the water, then add a small amount of cream and, finally, sit down properly, brushing aside the newspaper.
"All right, then, let's hear what's on your mind."
Sherlock took a deep breath and looked over towards John, taking hesitant, shaky steps in the direction of the table and stopping a few feet away. His fingers were obsessively clenching and unclenching, and he didn't think he could stop the restless action if he tried.
Just say it.
Then words were coming out in his voice, half-unwillingly.
"In the freezer... something happened there... I said something to Moriarty that I haven't told you yet. That I... well... haven't told anyone."
Seeming to sense the serious tone of Sherlock's voice, John looked up from his tea mug, concern bright in his blue-hazel eyes. "You... didn't say anything that made him angry, did you?" he questioned worriedly. "Nothing that'll mean he comes after us?"
Sherlock's head was already moving back and forth, in a shake, a negative response. "No... well... not in a bad way, exactly-" He didn't understand how he was even supposed to begin to communicate the multitude of emotional layers that surrounded the event, not to mention all those that had built up around it since its actual occurrence.
"Sherlock, is Moriarty coming or isn't he?"
"He's not. He's definitely not coming."
"Well, good." John's eyes flickered down almost embarrassedly to the table and he swallowed a rather large mouthful of his drink, lips pressing together as it burned its way down his throat. "I... I'm sorry, but just the thought of him... it's, well, sickening, you know?" His gaze flitted up to meet Sherlock's, searching for confirmation.
"I do know," the detective acknowledged. Though I'm sure the whole experience is a lot more painful to you. He could see the pain, too, see it in everything about John, his eyes, face, posture. The pain was a part of him now, one that would, most likely, never go away. He hadn't gotten rid of it, only grown used to it.
I'm sorry, Sherlock thought- I'm so sorry that I dragged you into this, that you got hurt because of my stupid problems...
But that wasn't what he had to say right now, as much as he wanted John to know it. Something else, something so much more important, was taking control at the moment.
"I... didn't want to have to tell you this... but if I don't, he will, and, well, that'll just make things even harder. This is pathetic," he added, frustration at himself building in his chest. "I shouldn't be... struggling with this, I-" He cut off his words before they could do any more damage. Already, everything that possibly could go wrong seemed to be doing so, and yet he had dug himself into a pit- there was no way to retreat, not now. He had started this little speech, and that meant that he had to finish it. If nothing else, it was a promise to himself- to back out now would be a cheat, not to mention it would concern John quite a bit.
The doctor set down his tea quietly, standing and taking a step towards Sherlock so that they were only half a meter away from each other. "Tell me what's wrong," he insisted. "Please. I want to know what's troubling you. What did you tell him? What did you say to Moriarty?"
"He was going on about how overly protective I was of you," Sherlock mumbled, half to himself. "Teasing me about it... bribing me. Saying how worthless you were... it was making me angry, that's the only reason that I-"
"Sherlock." And John, damn him, damn him, was reaching a hand out, touching Sherlock's upper arm in what must have supposed to be some sort of reassurance, but what turned out being only another aspect of stress, so that he was burning with it, wondering frantically if there was any way to escape this before he said the words, before it all shattered.
"He asked me why I cared so much about you. Why you seemed to matter to me when no one else did... no one else at all. Not even myself, not that much..."
"What did you say?"
"I told him that I loved you."
It was shock, shock that was filling those intricate blue-brown eyes, and the pressure on Sherlock's arm loosened for half a moment. He felt as though his insides had been removed, scooped cleanly out, as he waited- just waited for some sort of a reaction. Part of him wanted to go on, amend the words that he had just uttered, saying something about, perhaps, how he'd only said them on whim, how he didn't mean them... excuses flew across his mind at twice the speed of his usual thoughts, which was saying quite something. But he put voice to none of them, since doing so would be lying.
I do, he thought half-wonderingly, watching as myriad emotions crossed the expression of the man he was facing, like a rolling die, unsure about what number it wanted to land on. I really, really do love you- if I was ever going to put a definition to love, I suppose this would be it, wouldn't it? Everything about you, John- you're... I don't know what I'd be without you anymore. You're... amazing. You're so amazing.
"And... was that... true?" the doctor stuttered, looking completely lost.
Moments before, Sherlock would have struggled with the answer to this, but now there was no reason to. "Yes," he said simply. "Absolutely."
There was a strange little half-instant during which a lot of things seemed to happen at once- John's eyes hardened, his stomach tightened, his heart rose all the way to his throat- and then, simultaneously, both of them were reaching out, he was bending down and John tilting his head up, his hands were full of short, sandy blond hair and there were fingers running through his own dark curls, his eyes were closed somehow and there were lips on his- someone else's lips... he felt completely electrified, suspended in a practically magical moment- and, for a moment, just the briefest moment, he did believe in magic and all the other ridiculous things that couldn't possibly exist in the world, because it was right here, right now, in this soaring feeling that nothing else could possibly compare to, that lifted and elated every fiber of his being.
It was over quickly, very quickly. He could see John's face again then, and slowly pulled his hands back, breathing heavily, knowing that his face was surely flushed and his eyes most definitely brighter than usual.
"Look," John whispered, the sound barely scratching the flat's muffled silence. "Look outside."
Sherlock did, and what he saw was snow- beautiful, perfect, fluffy white flakes descending from the sky in a celestial dance, glimmering in the morning light, settling into soft carpets lining the road. They danced and twirled in invisible wind, wind that, surely, was icy cold.
But it wasn't cold inside. Despite its empty fireplace, 221B Baker Street had never been more filled with warmth, especially as he turned back to John, a sight that had to be a thousand times more beautiful than anything that winter had to offer him.