John

"You're not really angry, are you, John?" Sherlock asks softly.

"No."

"You do think I'm a bit of a dick sometimes."

"Daft old sod," John repeats, acutely aware of Sherlock's body shifting beside his.

"Mm. Yes. Well, I did throw a rather good bachelor party, didn't I?"

"That you did."

Sherlock switches to the side facing John. There is something unreadable, unreachable, in his eyes. John's pulse quickens.

"Sherlock?" he whispers.

Sherlock reaches out and lightly touches his face. His fingers barely graze the side of John's cheek, but it's enough to make things a lot more difficult for the man. "I'm happy for you, John. I do hope you know that," the detective says quietly. His index finger quivers ever so slightly, nearly brushing the corner of John's mouth. They makes eye contact, and John does not have to be a genius to detect some forbidden emotion hidden in the man's gaze. Longing. Regret. Love.

"Sherlock," John says hoarsely, heart beating so rapidly he might need medical assistance soon.

And suddenly it's over. Sherlock's expression hardens, his muscles tense, and he rolls over to the edge of the bed. "Goodnight," he says flatly, and falls silent.

John forgets what it's like to move, to think, to perform any basic human task. The vulnerability of that moment, the uncertainty of the gesture, the unexpected softness of Sherlock's thumb resting against his chin, has utterly undone him. "Pull it together," he mutters. "You're getting married tomorrow. Married. To a woman."

Still, images flash through his head. There have been moments, throughout their time together. Then again, that's to be expected, isn't it? Fighting crimes and saving lives together is bound to create some sort of bond.

But there have been definite moments. Perhaps he is making this all up in his head. Sherlock must be demonstrative sometimes. Molly Hooper told him once that the man had kissed her on the cheek. Of course, Sherlock would never do such a thing with John – the mere possibility is absurd – but there have still been moments, instants at the flat late at night.

Sherlock, constantly moving, was giving John a headache one evening, and after several outbursts finally obliged John, agreeing to relax, but when he sat down beside him proceeded to move his leg up and down at such a swift rate that the entire floor seemed to shake. Frustrated beyond belief, John tossed the newspaper aside and brought his hand down on his partner's thigh.

"Stop it," he'd snapped.

Sherlock had immediately stilled, staring intently at him, and John felt his face go red as he hastily relinquished his grip.

"Sorry," he muttered. "You can – you can pace, if that's what you want. Do what you want to."

"I'm perfectly fine sitting here," Sherlock said tersely.

John pretended to read the newspaper, but he cast sly glances at the detective, unable to ignore the fact that their knees were in sudden contact, that the fire was quite warm, and that it had taken one touch – his touch – to subdue the perpetually jumpy man.

"Quit looking at me," Sherlock finally said.

John whistled innocently.

"John."

"Pardon?"

"Oh, don't act like you think I really don't notice you. Subtlety really isn't your area."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he retorted airily, scribbling in 6-down on the weekly crossword puzzle.

"Don't be like that. It's not fitting." Sherlock finally stood up, the pressure of his arm against John's dizzying in the split second that he was in motion. "And by the way, you really ought to shave more. You don't want another one of those absurd caterpillars growing on your lip, do you?"

"It looked perfectly fine!" John said, choosing to ignore the way Sherlock's mouth rounded over the word "lip." "You've no right –"

Sherlock held up a hand, pouring himself a cup of tea with the other. "Please."

"I –"

"Are you staying over?" There was a fragile intonation in the question that John could not put a finger on. "Your room's still here."

For some reason, John did not feel prepared to handle the image of Sherlock in a bathrobe – or worse, a mere towel – wet hair messy and dripping all over the place. "No," he said.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said shortly, and retired to his bedroom.

And now here they are. In a hotel room. Side by side. John's head is spinning. He contemplates getting something to drink, but does not want to disturb what already feels like a precarious situation. With only six inches of thin sheets between the two men...

This is positively mental.

Sherlock's chest rises and falls, even breaths that indicate sleep. Though with him, one never knows. He might well be faking it. "Daft old sod," John says into the dark, sighing and pulling the duvet up under his chin. "But he's my sod."

–––––

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Sherlock

He wakes up the following morning at precisely 6 a.m. John is pressed firmly against his side, snoring slightly, and when Sherlock cautiously moves to get out of the bed, a small whimper escapes the man's lips; he reaches out, fists the hem of Sherlock's shirt. Please stay.

Gulping slightly, and perched in an awkward half-upright position, Sherlock stares at John. "Adorable" is a word that he has never once uttered or thought, but it seems to fit the bill. Tiny, frowzy, soft around the edges. So unlike his tall, austere, bony self.

He finds himself rendered unable to pry his gaze away from John's damn lips. Parted slightly. Thin, pale pink, a hint of tongue visible between half-hidden teeth.

"Mmph," murmurs the doctor.

Quick. Move away. Danger. Sherlock hurriedly leaps out of bed, so that by the time his friend finally throws off the covers, he's in the bathroom casually washing up.

"Morning," yawns John.

"Sleep well?" Sherlock's heart is pounding. The sight of his partner bleary-eyed and drowsy should not elicit such emotion, nor be so visually pleasing.

"Mm."

"Good."

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock wipes his face off, turns. John is standing eight inches away from him. Self control: engage. Now, for god's sake.

"Thanks," John says simply, smiling.

"Of course," Sherlock breathes. Words. Good.

"Um, Sherlock."

"Yes?" Is the air stuffy in here? He fears a lack of oxygen or surplus of carbon dioxide, both of which he knows are highly improbable; however, he can think of no alternate reason why respiration would be suddenly hindered in this manner.

"You're blocking the loo."

Sherlock coughs. Perhaps he really is getting sick. "Sorry." He steps aside. John flashes him another smile, this time a little questioning, and shuts the door.

Sherlock immediately begins to pace. Mind palace. Steeple of fingers, pressing against his chin. Mind palace. Find the mind palace. He reaches the window, spins on his heel, starts walking back. Inhale, exhale. Reason. Logic. Safety. He does not feel secure right now.

The wedding is this afternoon. They have to be at the church, getting ready, in three hours. The sodding wedding.

Don't get angry. Deep breaths. There you go.

"Sherlock?" John calls. He pokes a head out the door, top half naked. "Do you reckon I've got time to shower before we have to leave?"

Plan. Time. Think. Not about John in the shower. Nope. Hours. How many? One and a half, to be safe, to get back to 221b. Breakfast? Thirty minutes. Calling to make final arrangements, confirm everything is in place (Mary will have done that, of course, but he's got a handful of extras working behind the scenes with whom it is crucial to touch base)... another half hour.

"If not, it's fine," John continues, as Sherlock opens his mouth to reply. "Could you just hand me my pants, then?"

Shit. Sherlock forgets what he was saying.

"Sherlock?"

"Sorry, sorry. If you make it fast, you have time to shower."

John grins. "Be right out."

"Excellent," Sherlock mutters, walking up and down the room. He gives the area a cursory survey, though he knows nothing is missing.

He has to come to grips with this. Marriage, inconsequential as it may be, is, to everybody but himself, a big deal. Mrs. Hudson warned him, explaining that it alters things, pointing out that he has always lived alone. It is the nature of life to change, is it not? Entropy, the random motion of particles towards a state of chaos in the universe. There is no way for anything to stay the same. Sherlock acknowledges this truth.

So then why is he getting agitated at the mere mention of Mary, at the thought of John moving on, of himself staying the same, alone? 221b isn't that bad, cast in gray shadows, quiet. Too quiet, without John? Perhaps. He has been acclimatizing, though. Counting the number of days he can handle without speaking with his friend (eight so far; as long as he sees John on the ninth morning sometime before noon, he is able to restrain himself from showing up wherever the doctor is. John makes it so easy to track him).

"Sherlock? Pass me a towel?" John calls.

Sherlock jolts out of his – well, he never fully maneuvered his way into his mind palace – mind foyer, and grabs a towel, a little scratchy against his palm. John's hand is dangling out the door, disembodied, goose flesh and dewy water drops snaking a pattern down his forearm. He takes the proffered towel, fingers closing, moist and warm, around Sherlock's.

"Thanks."

"No problem," Sherlock breathes, then spins sharply on his heel and strides towards the window. Anywhere but John. He hears the door open, hears John pad softly towards the bed, can practically feel the energy release as the older man bends down, muscles in his back contracting, to get dressed. When the final button weaves through its slot, Sherlock exhales and turns back around.

"You alright, then?" John asks.

"Yes," Sherlock replies; the man's wiry arms, biceps subtly flexing to pull a jumper over his head, are rather distracting.

"Okay. Here." John tosses him his coat, takes his own – Sherlock recalls John's scent, his skin, his body heat engulfing him; he had, of course, had perfect control over the double zipper, but fumbling over it made for a good excuse – and jerks his head towards the exit. "We're off, then?"

"Um. Yes."

"Pretty sure I'm the one who should be nervous and incoherent," John points out as they stroll down the hall. "It is my wedding day, after all."

Sherlock's stomach turns over. Does he really have to mention it that many times, really? Itching with irritation, he says, "Right." Grits his teeth. Mind palace. Find the mind palace. Reason is an inexplicable barrier between himself and his own sorrow, and it is vital that he find it. Logic. A case would be ideal, of course, but a handful of minor dissections and decomposing livers might be sufficient to take his mind off of it.

Off of the wedding, of course. Off of John... well, at this point nothing – nothing – could ever take his mind off of John.