They were both quiet on the train ride home, still a bit shaken by the events of the weekend. John was torn between his frustration at Sherlock crossing a line with his experiments—yet again—and the strangely warm-fuzzy feelings he got whenever his mind went back to Sherlock sleeping beside him. His face when he'd come into John's room—such vulnerability. John wasn't sure, but looking back it seemed as though Sherlock was nervous about something. Sherlock Holmes, nervous—about John? Perhaps he wasn't the only one who'd needed a little good-old-fashioned human comfort last night.
John thought about what other kinds of ...human comfort… he might like to give Sherlock. This entire relationship so far had been an experiment in the fluidity of sexual orientation, hadn't it? His cries of "I'm not gay!" were starting to sound a little weaker around the edges, and after that encounter with Irene Adler, well, if Sherlock were to offer, John certainly wouldn't say no. The man possessed a strange ethereal beauty that the good doctor had trouble resisting even without the man climbing into bed with him.
•••
Sherlock watched John the whole ride home, trying to gauge his reaction. He'd run left before John had awoken that morning, not wanting to deal with the probable fallout, and then at breakfast John had been distracted by the experiment with the sugar… there was no way for Sherlock to know what John thought of last night. He'd clearly been upset all morning, but that could easily be explained by other stimuli. The train yielded little new information. It seemed that John was deep in the midst of some internal struggle, but John was became internally conflicted about such trivial things that that was no real indication (the small irrational part of Sherlock's brain suggested that perhaps John was conflicted about his feelings for Sherlock, and that since the man was a self-reported heterosexual that was most likely a good sign). He still wasn't sure whether to call this experiment a failure or a success when they arrived back to Baker Street.
Disappointment grew in the pit of his stomach as he watched john immediately start up the stairs toward his bedroom. "John!" he called without thinking.
John turned to look at him, surprise plain on his face. "What is it, Sherlock?"
"I—could you make me a cup of tea?" he scrambled for an excuse. "You do it so much better than I do, and they only had coffee in that little inn."
John gave him a tired smile. "Alright. Just give me a minute to put my bag down."
Sherlock nodded, content in the knowledge that John would be coming back. This feeling of needing John near was getting stronger. He'd noticed it a month or so ago, and it had just continued building. He wasn't sure what it was—he had never felt anything like it. This strange, irrational feeling that when he wasn't with John, something was wrong. That he needed John to be safe as much—if not more—than he needed to be safe himself. It made no sense whatsoever. And that coupled with the definite attraction he felt toward the other man served to provide a rather large distraction. He needed more data.
•••
John came down the stairs and walked into the kitchen, placing the kettle on the stove. He'd intended to just go right to bed—it was only 20:00, but he was tired—but Sherlock had been so…adorable? He'd stuttered—when he'd asked John for the tea that there had been no way to refuse. Even if it meant that now they would probably have to talk, and he was pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to avoid mentioning last night any longer.
He finished making the tea and brought the tea to Sherlock, who was sitting on the sofa. He sat down beside him, his own cup of tea in hand.
Sherlock gave him a long glance before pulling his legs up onto the sofa and leaning on his shoulder. "Thank you, John."
John was surprised, but not displeased—or overly hopeful. He knew better than to think this meant something—Sherlock didn't understand the concept of personal space. He just let the other man rest there, and took a sip of tea. "You're welcome, Sherlock."
Sherlock smiled contentedly and his eyes drifted closed. It wasn't long before John felt his breathing deepen and slow. He smiled down at his best friend and stood carefully, placing a pillow in the space his body had just vacated and grabbing a spare quit to drape over the sleeping man's shoulders. He got ready for bed as quietly as he could, and then it wasn't long before he, too, was unconscious.
•••
Sherlock awoke in the dark and for an instant he didn't know where he was. Then last night came rushing back to him—John must have been terribly irritated with him. But then he sat up and noticed the blanket, and pillow. Those were good signs, were they not? He climbed the stairs cautiously—two nights in a row was pushing his luck, he knew. But it felt like there was a string reeling him in, and then he was in John's room, lying down beside him, wrapping his arms around—and then we was asleep again.
•••
John woke up to a warm body pressed against his back, and a pair or muscled arms wrapped around him. He snuggled into the warmth, noting Sherlock's erection pressed against his leg. Still half asleep, he rolled over and pressed his lips to Sherlock's shoulder, breathing in the smell of him… John jolted awake, throwing himself backwards. This was actual Sherlock, in his actual bed—with an actual erection pressing at his tightly tailored trousers.
Sherlock snapped awake too, startling at the movement. "Oh, gods, John, I…"
"What the fuck, Sherlock?"
"I can explain, just—"
"You're in my bed! First you sneak in at the inn, and then last night you fall asleep on my shoulder, and now I wake up to your hard-on against my back!"
"I don't know what's happening to me, John! You have to help me, I can't…I can't sleep without you. I can't stand being without you, John, there must be something wrong with me." Sherlock's eyes were wide, scared.
John felt like someone had just dropped a ton of bricks on him. Sherlock Holmes, needing him? For something other than the tea? He laid back down beside him, wrapping an arm lightly around his shoulder. "Sherlock. There's nothing wrong with you."
"But I've been acting irrationally and I don't even know why I do things anymore and I…you…"
John, realizing this was going nowhere, leaned in and pressed his lips to the other man's.
Sherlock's eyes got even wider, and he responded enthusiastically, pressing himself closer, wrapping his leg around John's hip.
John broke away after a second, chuckling slightly. "Calm down a minute. We should probably talk about this."
Sherlock shook his head, burying his face in John's shoulder. "I don't understand. How can I talk about what I don't understand?"
John kissed his forehead. "It's called love, Sherlock, and nobody understands it."
•••
"Love is for the weak." If there was one lesson Mycroft had taught him…
"Well, then, welcome to the club. It's called humanity." John spoke with such certainty.
"Okay, then. Let's say I love you. What else is there to discuss?" He had to admit it was the closest thing he'd ever heard of to what he was feeling…and all he really wanted in that moment was to get back to kissing.
John chuckled again. "Well, I guess that about covers it. I think the rest can wait."
"Good," Sherlock growled, bringing his lips back to John's.
•••
John would look back on those days in the years to come, and he would silently thank that crazy doctor for finally giving Sherlock a reason to come to his bed. If it hadn't been for him, there was no telling how long the detective would have held out against his own desires. All it took was a little fear...to create the best relationship of either of their lives. They were getting married tomorrow (Mycroft had finally gotten gay marriage legalized) and it was all thanks to that first night in Dartmoor.
•••
Sherlock walked down the aisle toward the man he loved, tears running silently down his face. He couldn't believe this was finally happening to him, that he'd found the ove of his life ad was now marrying him. This was insanity, he must be dreaming, or perhaps this was an interesting drug trip…
The vows were said, the rings exchanged, and then the officiate said "you may now kiss your husband" this couldn't be happening, not to him, no one would ever consent to marry him… and then John was kissing him, and it was beautiful, was perfect, and most importantly, was real.
"I love you," John whispered when he pulled away.
"Forever," Sherlock responded, holding his husband tight to his side.