A/N: It's been so long and I've missed you guys! I've also really missed writing this story :,)
Hope you guys like this chapter, it's a two-parter!
*important info about story in endnotes*
Enjoy!
For the most part, things remain unchanged.
Sherlock still leaves numerous petri dishes of mold spread across the table—where we eat food, Sherlock, John exasperatedly reminds him—and John still spends too much time watching ridiculous films and trite reality shows (though John heartily denies that his shows are anything less than brilliant). Sherlock still dives headfirst into cases and drowns the rest of the world out for a bit, and John still goes to the clinic and loses himself in the care of his patients; the only tangible differences between Then and Now are the quick kisses exchanged right before John leaves for work or how Sherlock falls asleep curled around John now instead of a ball of crumpled sheets. Any feeble physical boundary that may have existed Before has now been completely decimated: hand-holding, a casual brush of shoulders, lips to temples; they're practically connected at the hip, now.
To say it is not a domestic existence would be a lie, because although they don't do dishes as a couple or shop for the groceries together, they somehow find their own niche of domesticity and companionship to fall into: one which includes crime scenes, lunches at Angelo's, movie nights—'James Bond again, John? Really?'—and the occasional lightning-fast display of PDA.
It is, in fact, a perfect existence rife with the most pleasant imperfections.
As far as Wednesdays go, this particular one leaves much to be desired.
It is hellishly warm, the clues of this case are as obvious as the Yard detectives are oblivious, and Anderson will not stop spouting ridiculous theories he has based entirely off a 'gut feeling' despite the blatant contradictions splayed out before him (aka, the pieces of bloody evidence, which—contrary to Phillip's apparent beliefs—are not just there are decorations).
"Anderson, I have a suggestion for you," Sherlock says slowly, as if speaking to a toddler, "perhaps if you attempted to pull your head from your arse, you'd find that it's far easier to speak like someone with more than three collective brain cells!"
With nearly comical indignation, Anderson cries, "Excuse me?" at the same time John snaps, "Sherlock!"
Since Sherlock has a particular fondness for John—and a particular fondness for ignoring Anderson—he decides to entertain John's exclamation first. "Yes, John?" he asks innocently. He's well aware of how John feels about his scathing commentary at crime scenes—even when they're directed at someone as deplorable as Anderson—but he hopes that if he looks innocuous enough John will chalk it up to his lacking social skills and save him the lecture. To complete his image of saintly intentions, Sherlock even cocks his head to the left and widens his eyes just a fraction. "Is something the matter?"
If John's deadpan expression is anything to go by, then yes something is definitely 'the matter'.
"Come here a minute, will you?" John asks; though, Sherlock finds that the question mark in his tone is unnecessary, since he doesn't seem too inclined to wait for a response as he grabs Sherlock's sleeve and bodily removes him from the crime scene two seconds later. Feeling very much like a child about to be chastised, Sherlock allows John to guide him away from the crowd of detectives and onto a park bench. They're only a couple dozen feet away from the crime scene—which is currently occupying a decent portion of the park's wide lawn—so Sherlock can still observe the progress of the case while simultaneously listening to John's lecture about etiquette. When John takes a deep breath, Sherlock thinks he is going to begin his speech—perhaps he'll highlight the importance of not telling people where they can stick things, or how polite adults don't speak of heads being in any vicinity of the arse—but then John surprises him by chuckling and sitting down next to him.
"I'm not going to waste my breath telling you that was rude, because you already know that." Still smiling, John scoots closer so that their sides are pressed together from shoulder to elbow. "Between you and me, I was getting bloody sick of Anderson's 'the girlfriend did it' theory—her alibi was confirmed two days ago for Christ's sake—and I'm glad someone finally shut him up."
Sherlock raises his eyebrows so far that they nearly touch his hairline. "So you have no intention of chastising me?"
John looks at him sideways. "Well, if you were really looking forward to a lecture on manners, then I suppose I could muster something up…" he trails off.
"Nope!" Sherlock pronounces, popping the 'p'. "I'm quite alright, thank you. However, I wouldn't mind having a, er, a…" Sherlock trails off awkwardly, his eyes suddenly falling to his feet. Despite the fact that he and John have been in a relationship for several weeks at this point—after living together for years—Sherlock still finds himself unable to ask for physical affection.
Like, for example, kissing.
It just seems so strange to formally request such a thing—he has little social awareness to boast of, but even he knows that would be a cringe-inducing experience—but it seems equally strange to just swoop in and assault John's mouth without warning. Scheduling such a thing beforehand would be too technical and dispassionate and doing it impulsively would be far too risky; though he knows the chances of John turning him away are next to nil, there's still that slight 0.00001 percent chance that he might reject him and Sherlock cannot bear to risk it, even with those unlikely odds.
It is then that he remembers he started a sentence without finishing it and John is still looking at him, patiently waiting for him to go on. After another prolonged moment of unsure silence, John gives him a lopsided smile and drops a hand on his knee.
"You don't have to always ask, you know," he says kindly, placing his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, slowly guiding their faces together. Sherlock hums in contentment and tilts his head slightly to the right while John tilts his slightly to the left, his heart pounding in his chest just as fiercely as it had four weeks ago, when this first occurred. As soon as his lips meet John's, he can't help but grin against his mouth, happiness bubbling in his veins like champagne. The kisses are chaste and sweet, just a warm, delicious press of mouth to mouth, but he feels as though he is drowning in emotion; he suspects that no matter how many times they do this, there will always be that melty, elated feeling stirring in his chest.
Which is why, of course, Anderson and his obnoxious, grating voice have to butt in and interrupt everything. He saunters over, hands on his hips, all indignation and annoyance. "So he gets to just swoop in here, criticize everyone, turn this crime scene upside down, and then leave us with the mess so he can snog John? What the bloody hell is that about? I thought we were all professionals here."
Sherlock pulls away reluctantly, a fresh arsenal of Anderson-specific insults ready on his tongue—it's one thing to muck up a case, but to interrupt him and John? That's practically a capital offense in Sherlock's book.
"Pardon me, Anderson, I was under the impression that you and your brilliant ideas didn't need my consultation; I thought you'd be content to muddle around with the evidence and bore everyone within your vicinity without my presence."
Anderson's face glows a rather unbecoming shade of red. "Why you smarmy little—"
"Ahem," Greg interrupts, ever the pacifier. "Phillip, go take this to Donovan, will you?" The DI hands the man a clipboard with blank papers. It's clearly a useless errand, but he seems to understand that Greg is very kindly sparing him from yet another Sherlockian verbal onslaught, so he accepts the clipboard and scurries off, his pinched face offering Sherlock one last glare.
Once the git is out of sight, Lestrade turns to face Sherlock and John. "So," he says, raising his eyebrows. "You two finally saw the light, eh?"
John flushes and looks at his shoes—in the most adorable bloody manner Sherlock has ever seen—but Sherlock himself just plasters on a smug expression and quirks an eyebrow. He throws his arm around John's shoulder and tugs him close against his side, a look of pride and a hint of possessiveness sparkling in his pale eyes. "Yes," Sherlock states. "We have."
John takes the hand over his shoulder and interlaces their fingers, the flush replaced by a matching look of pride. "We've been together for a few weeks now." It has an distinct challenging edge to it, almost as if he is daring Greg to say something bad about the whole thing. Sherlock finds this odd because it never occurred to him that anyone might oppose their partnership, least of all Lestrade, who has stood by Sherlock's side for years and saved him from countless brushes with addiction—but then again, John doesn't know the man as well as Sherlock, so perhaps it's understandable that he's a bit wary.
But, just as Sherlock expected, Lestrade smiles. "I'm really happy for you boys," he says, patting Sherlock's John-free shoulder. "Bout damn time if you ask me."
"I agree," Sherlock concurs soberly. "This took far too long."
"But you know what this means, right?" The DI grins and rubs his fingers together, indicating money. "I just made about fifty pounds thanks to you two—the Yarders and I have had this big wager going on about when you'd finally get together, and thank my lucky stars I chose from this month to next month. Sally's money was on next Christmas and Anderson was sure you'd hook up about four months ago."
John snorts. "Really, Greg? A bet?"
"Yup," he replies, unashamed. "And alright, maybe I had a bit of an unfair advantage because Molly may or may not have indicated that things were coming together with you two, but that lot doesn't need to know that." He winks. "Hey, and speaking of Mol, would you guys be interested in a 'double date' sometime in the future?" The man winces. "Yeah, her words not mine. She's been talking about doing something like that for days—help an old chump out, will you?"
John smiles. "Glad to help, Greg. We'd love to, right, Sherlock?"
"In any other case I'd rather swallow my house keys, but since I find you and Molly reasonably pleasant, I suppose one evening wouldn't hurt."
Lestrade grins. "Now don't get too sappy there, Sherlock, you'll make me think you've gone soft." He chuckles good-naturedly. "Anyway, I'll let you two go back to what you were doing. When you're less, er, preoccupied, Sherlock, do you think you could pop over and clean up after Anderson yet again? The bloody idiot is currently trying to convince the rest of the detectives to agree with his mad belief that the girlfriend killed Samuel Novak. Damn fool."
Two months later, it occurs to Sherlock that he ought to meet John's family. That is typically the protocol for being in a committed relationship, isn't it?
"John," he says one morning over breakfast. "I would like to meet your sister."
John drops his slice of toast and it lands in his coffee cup. He blinks. "Pardon?"
"Your sister," Sherlock repeats, figuring it's too early in the morning for John to properly register his question. "Harriet."
"Ah. Right. Yeah, that's what I thought you said. Not so sure that's a good idea…" John fidgets, looking far more uncomfortable than Sherlock feels the situation merits. Why does the notion of Sherlock meeting his family make him so displeased? In one horrible moment, it occurs to Sherlock that perhaps John is…ashamed of him.
Admittedly Sherlock isn't the most normal bloke, or the nicest, or even the most social; he's a strange, gangly consulting detective with more affection for dissections and chemical experiments than for socializing or being around others. He's awkward and bad at comprehending cues, and despite his polite upbringing, his manners are severely lacking.
It's no surprise that John is reluctant to introduce Sherlock to his sister.
"Er, never mind. I understand your reluctance," he mumbles, ducking his head. He makes a point of going back to reading his online article, even though he isn't registering a single word.
"Wait, hold on a minute," John says, sounding worried. "You definitely don't understand; Christ, Sherlock, it's definitely not because of you that I'm reluctant, it's because of my bloody sister!"
The relief that floods through his chest is immediate and all-encompassing. "Oh," he says quietly.
John puts down his fork with a loud clink. "Sherlock? Look at me."
He does.
"Listen to what I am about to say, alright?" John takes a deep breath. "I could not be more proud to be with you; you're brilliant, clever, charismatic, honest, and bloody gorgeous, and I am the luckiest person on the planet to be able to say that I am with you—understand? The reason I'm a little…uncomfortable with the idea of you and Harry meeting is mostly because my sister is the most difficult person in the world and I really didn't want to subject you to—her so soon."
Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and flutters his fingers against the table. "I love you," he blurts out, because the words are true and imperfectly timed, and just there on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be said.
John reaches across the table for his hand and brushes his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles. "I love you too. We'll talk about this later after I've thought about it a bit more, yeah?"
Sherlock squeezes John's hand and nods, deciding that he can wait until 'later' for John's sake.
. . .
As it turns out, 'later' is three days into the following week, when Sherlock is in the kitchen hunched over his latest experiment and John is reading the paper in the living room.
Out of nowhere, with absolutely no preamble, John lowers his paper and says:
"I just don't know how I should tell her."
It's then that Sherlock decides John is very lucky to be with an intelligent person, because any other civilian would immediately reply with "huh?" and have no bloody idea what he was referring to. However, since Sherlock's mind is superior in every sense to a civilian's, he immediately understands that John is referring to his reluctance to reveal their relationship to Harry.
"Well, John," he says, pulling off his goggles to see John better. "If you fear she'll turn away from you for being with a man, then I must remind you that your sister is a lesbian. I highly doubt this will be problematic."
John frowns at him over the edge of his paper. "Yes, thank you, Detective, I'm well aware that my sister is gay. That isn't what I'm worried about."
Sherlock raises his eyebrows expectantly and waits for elaboration.
"Harry…Harry isn't exactly the most welcoming person," John begins hesitantly, "My past girlfriends have always been either intimated or scared off by her because she is quite protective. And quick to judge. And, er, a bit tactless at times. I just don't want her to give you the 'you don't deserve Johnny so you better treasure him' speech."
"I already know that I should treasure you, John," is Sherlock's genuine reply. "There is nothing she will tell me that I am not already abundantly aware of."
John flattens his paper against his lap, looking at Sherlock with warm eyes. He makes a humming noise and smiles, but seems to know better than go on a long, emotional lecture—though, clearly he would like to. For Sherlock's sake, he expresses his affection with a meaningful pause and then moves right along. "She can be a difficult person to get along with, alright?"
Sherlock snorts. "If you haven't noticed, John, I'm not the easiest person on the planet either and you tolerate me just fine."
He huffs a sigh. "Right, but she can be judgmental, rude, snappish, overly blunt…"
Sherlock carefully places the next swab of genetic material beside his microscope. "Sounds like a perfect description of me."
"She has a dark sense of humor," John argues.
"As do I."
"She really doesn't like posh people because they intimidate her, so she lashes out by being defensive and snappy."
"John, you hardly need to worry about that. I'm not posh," Sherlock scoffs. Christ, what is John worried about? It isn't as if he's Mycroft or some rubbish.
John doesn't take his eyes off the sports section, but an amused smirk works its way onto his lips. After a significant beat of silence, he says "Yes, you're right" in a mild tone that practically screams 'no, you're wrong'.
Affronted, Sherlock says, "Oh, so you do think I'm posh?"
The blossoming smile becomes a full-blown grin and John briefly flicks his gaze in Sherlock's direction, his eyes bright with fondness and humor. "You're the poshest bloke I know, but I love that about you. It's one of the main components that makes you you."
Sherlock harrumphs and makes a dramatic show of peering through his microscope, feigning offense. "Whatever."
Untroubled, John continues on. "You two just seem too…similar to get along, you know? I feel like you'd butt heads the entire time and no one would have fun."
He glances away from his experiment to meet John's eyes, surprised to find that they hold genuine worry. He sighs and turns on his stool to face John. "I know you have your worries—as unfounded as they are—but it would mean a great deal to me if I met your sister. I feel that since we've been in a relationship for a few months now, it's only proper that I acquaint myself with your family. That's what one usually does, correct?"
John smiles crookedly. "And since when are we conventional?"
"Well, in any other case I'd be inclined to ignore social norms, but in this instance I'd very much like to conform to the status quo, as they say."
John grins, clearly won over. "Fine, you can meet her. But first I have to figure out how I should segue into the topic of our relationship. She doesn't really know about 'us', since I've written her pretty sparingly over the past few months." He pauses, considering something. "Here, I'll practice on you." John clears his throat and straightens his shoulders, "Listen, Harry, I know I should have told you sooner, but Sherlock and I are dating."
Sherlock glances up from his experiment with a long-suffering look. "Must you call it that, John?"
"Well, that's what this is, isn't it? Dating?"
In return, Sherlock frowns moodily and adjusts the next plasma slide. "It's a partnership, John. We're not dating. That term sounds far too plebian."
Amusement dances across John's face and a smile threatens to flick up the corners of his mouth, but he does an impressive job of holding it in. "But we go on dates," he points out.
"No, we go out to dinner occasionally."
John hums in mock consideration. "Okay, so then what are we?"
"We're partners—"
"Lovers."
"Companions—"
"Boyfriends."
"Romantically involved flat mates!" Sherlock exclaims, exasperated.
John finally loses the battle of keeping a straight face, and with a wide grin he snorts, "Romantically involved flat mates? Really, Sherlock? Don't you think you're being a little bit ridiculous?"
"No," Sherlock returns primly, making a point of shifting his focus back to his microscope.
John chuckles to himself and ruffles the newspaper, straightening it so that the paper stands up high over his head. From behind the sports section, he asks, "Alright, then what shall I call us when I'm speaking to other people?"
"Sherlock and John."
John flicks the paper down for a moment, solely to deadpan. "How creative."
Sherlock sighs again and adjusts one of the focus dials. "So you'd like me to refer to you as my boyfriend, then?"
Drily, John replies, "I'd actually prefer 'wildly passionate lover' if it's all the same to you."
"It isn't," Sherlock snaps, without malice. "I'll eat my left shoe before I call you that."
There's only silence in reply, so after a moment Sherlock glances up to gauge John's reaction, only to find him absent from his chair. He has two seconds to wonder where he went before a pair of lips find themselves at his cheek. Sherlock jumps briefly in surprise—Christ, John can be quiet and sneaky when he wants to—before he grins and turns his head to meet John's lips with his own. John cups the sides of his face in his warm, rough palms and presses their mouths together. After a few lazy slides of lips, John moves around the chair so that they are face to face.
With bright eyes, he asks, "Unless you'd like to snog on a stool in the kitchen, I suggest we move to the living room?"
Since John's mouth has a funny way of short-circuiting Sherlock's brain, he just nods dumbly and allows himself to be ushered into his chair, where John immediately crawls into his lap and begins sucking a bruise into his neck.
"Want to—kiss you," Sherlock mutters, running his hands over John's arched back, digging his nails into the material of his ridiculous (adorable) argyle sweater. Instead of slotting their mouths together like Sherlock would so desperately enjoy, John just smirks and tilts his head away. Sherlock attempts to kiss him again, but John persistently dodges his lips.
"John, stop," he murmurs against John's chin, attempting to plant his lips on his intended target. John huffs laughter and angles his head away even more, presenting Sherlock with only his throat to ravish. Always an appreciator of a good opportunity, Sherlock latches on to the warm skin of John's neck, sucking lightly; after a moment he pulls a centimeter away. "Let me kiss you," he complains petulantly, caring very little that he sounds like a spoiled child being denied a treat. John chuckles again and Sherlock feels the vibration of it on his lips as he kisses lazy patterns up the side of John's throat.
"What am I?" John asks, a hint of teasing in his voice. He brushes his fingers affectionately through Sherlock's curls.
"My date," he says into John's Adams apple, his hands running lazily over John's back.
John hums in agreement. He sinks down so that his face is within kissing-distance. "And?"
"My boyfriend," he murmurs against the jut of John's jaw.
"And?" John prompts, leaning instinctively into the kisses.
"My wildly passionate lover," he finishes, then almost dies of joy when John grabs the sides of his face and finally snogs the holy hell out of him. By the time John pulls away three uninterrupted minutes later, Sherlock is panting so hard one might think he'd just run a marathon.
Satisfied, John climbs out of Sherlock's lap and returns to his own chair, a look of mock seriousness on his face. "Glad we got that settled, my equally passionate lover."
Still boneless with happiness, Sherlock just smirks and shuts his eyes, deciding that he'll call John the bloody Emperor of the Universe if it means getting kissed like that again. "So that's a yes to meeting Harry then?" He mumbles.
John hums in consideration. "You know what? Yes. I think it would be a nice idea. I'll phone her tonight and set something up, sound good?"
"Sounds great," Sherlock sighs, smiling to the ceiling and thanking every star in every galaxy that this is somehow his life.
A/N: So, lovelies, what did you think? I had so much fun revisiting this story, since most of my writing these days has been rhetorical analysis, 5-paragraph essays, and précis after précis.
INFO: OKay, so yay Hiatus is over! Here's some new things y'all should know:
*since it's no longer summer I won't be posting lengthy chapters like I used to (there just isn't enough time). Typical word count from now on will be around 3-5k, which still isn't too bad compared to some other stories
*there are at least FOUR guaranteed chapters coming up, but who knows, I might add more depending on inspiration and any ideas you guys might have :3
*the latter part of that last one leads me to my next point: if you guys have any scenarios/ moments/ mega small clips of dialogue or minor conflicts you'd like me to incorporate into future chapters, then I'm all ears! I love hearing your guys' ideas, in fact they're what helped me through this story from the very beginning :)
* as for updating times, I honestly have no idea. I currently have 2 other in progress stories on the backburner as well as a whole mishmash of endless homework assignments and academic/social/athletic obligations to attend to, so I can't make any promises! Just follow/subscribe to make sure you see when the next chap is up!
OKAY. now that that's over with, on to my usual spiel: Tell what you thought of this chapter in the comments, you lovely readers you! Your feedback is like gold encrusted chocolate bars-that's how precious it is to me.
Thanks for reading! Until next time, darlings!
XOXO