Sherlock was falling. In slow motion he tipped and then fell, his arms spread, his coat flapping around him, down, and down, and down. And in slow motion John ran, his feet sinking into the ground as if it were wet sand, blood roaring in his ears. He ran toward Sherlock, as he always did — but this time he caught him.
He felt the solid weight of him land heavy in his arms, and he cradled Sherlock to his chest. "I did it!" His voice rang with exultation. "I caught you, Sherlock! You didn't..."
His words stopped up in his throat, the jubilant smile melting from his face as he looked down at the man in his arms. Sherlock's head lolled back over John's arm, the pale grey eyes vacant and staring, with a third eye — the neat red-black hole of a sniper's bullet — centered above them.
John jerked awake, the strangled roar of grief and anger trapped in his throat. He felt his pulse racing, his chest so tight he felt as if he would never draw a full breath again.
"John?" He caught a glimpse of Sherlock's face, pale and concerned in the glow of the laptop screen.
His body moved without his permission — a sudden lunge and the next thing he knew he was pressed up against Sherlock's back, his cheek awkwardly mashed between two sharp shoulder blades.
"John?" He could hear the concern in Sherlock's voice, could feel him trying to turn around, and John just grasped him tighter. He felt weak and panicky and he couldn't let Sherlock see him right now, he couldn't let go, he just needed...he just needed this for a moment.
He pressed his forehead against Sherlock's spine and sucked in a shuddering breath through his nose. It was filled with the warm soothing scent of Sherlock — the deep rich smell of the man himself that had always lingered under the wool and chemicals and soap.
"Please," he ground out. "Just...let me stay like this for a minute."
He felt Sherlock's body go still and quiet. "Yes. All right," he said, the befuddlement clear in his voice.
They sat like that for endless minutes, John trying to slow his racing heart, his face pressed tight to Sherlock's silk shirt, feeling the soft fabric billow in and out with every one of his uneven breaths. He felt ridiculous and weak, clinging to Sherlock like this, knowing the shirt over Sherlock's spine was growing damp with his suppressed tears, but he couldn't let go. It helped, to feel Sherlock solid in his arms, to hear his heartbeat and breathing through the warm skin of his back.
"Sorry," he found himself mumbling in embarrassment into the damp shirt. "Sorry."
Sherlock had limited range of motion given how John had his arms pinned to his sides, but he managed to snake one hand up, patting awkwardly at the random part of John's arm that he could reach. "It's all right, John," he said solemnly. "If this helps you, then...I am amenable."
Despite everything, John found himself huffing with laughter against Sherlock's back. The mad bugger, of course he wouldn't care how strange it was that his former flatmate was clinging to him like a terrified child with a teddy bear. Every once in awhile there was something to be said for a total obliviousness to social mores.
It was that thought which finally allowed him to release Sherlock, his stiff arms sliding awkwardly free. Maybe Sherlock would dismiss this as yet another inexplicable display of sentiment, not inconsistent with their friendship. All the same, he kept his face averted as he stood up, sure that his feelings for Sherlock must have been writ large across his expression.
"I'm going to take a shower," he mumbled, rummaging through his wardrobe to gather up a change of clothes. "And then I'll order us some takeaway for dinner."
"Fine." Sherlock was already tapping at the keyboard again, but when John sneaked a quick glance the cool grey eyes were fixed on him, a thoughtful furrow wrinkling the pale brow.
John took an extraordinarily long shower, trying to regain his composure. Every sensible bone in his body was telling him that he had to hide his feelings from Sherlock for as long as possible. This was no time to throw the emotional equivalent of a hand grenade into their relationship. Sherlock seemed exceptionally fragile right now. Their lives were at risk. And, above all, they were trapped in this tiny flat together for the foreseeable future.
God, he could only imagine the awkwardness if Sherlock discovered his feelings, and had to rebuff him while they spent the next few weeks in each others' pockets. Or worse, if Sherlock became uncomfortable — maybe even got frightened away, driven to do something impulsive like leave the flat...
No, he had to get a hold of himself. He had already revealed way too much. He wouldn't hide his feelings forever, he knew better than to think that was a possibility. Even Sherlock's blind spot for sentiment wouldn't miss something like this indefinitely, and John himself could not continue to lie to them both now that he had realized the truth. When this was over, when Moran was dealt with, he would tell Sherlock about his inconvenient feelings. And if, as was likely, Sherlock was disinterested, he would assure him that nothing would change between them. He could manage this — he could, as long as Sherlock stayed in his life.
Feeling somewhat grounded by that decision, he dressed and emerged. Sherlock was still cross-legged on the bed, but John realized now that he must have showered and changed while John was napping. He was wearing the clothes Mycroft had brought, and with residual dampness forcing his shorn locks to curl slightly he looked so much like his old self that it made John dizzy for a moment.
He picked up the his phone to order the takeaway.
"Exactly what you usually order, John. There must be no deviation from your routine," Sherlock instructed imperiously from his perch.
John considered. Usually he ordered enough to have leftovers anyway. "You're eating," he stated firmly to Sherlock, and then placed his typical order.
He sat down on the bed to pull on his shoes. How was this going to work? Granted Sherlock seemed able to subsist on air and tea, but eventually he would need supplies. More clothes, extra food, and the like. When he asked, Sherlock simply shrugged aside the question impatiently. "Mycroft will get it sorted," he said, returning to his relentless tapping.
After returning with the takeaway, John forced Sherlock to eat by the simple expedient of confiscating the computer until he did. Sherlock's petulance diminished after the first few bites, John watching in amazement as he started to practically shovel the pad thai in. He had eaten a little breakfast when John had forced it on him, but not like this. Hopefully that meant he was feeling better.
John relinquished the computer, and they sat in relatively companionable silence for awhile, John catching up on a few medical journals while Sherlock watched endless amounts of footage.
Finally, as the clock crept closer to midnight, John put his journal down with a sigh.
"You're going to sleep," he said, his voice brooking no argument.
"What? Of course not." Sherlock didn't even move his eyes from the screen.
"Sherlock." John sat next to him on the bed, considering his approach. He wouldn't put money on being able to snatch the computer away again. "First of all, you need sleep. You're still recovering from injuries. Second of all, you've been at this all day. You'll get sloppy and miss something."
Sherlock's jaw clenched. "I don't get sloppy," he said, making the last word sound like the vilest of curses.
John could feel his temper rising. Did the man not have the slightest care for his own well-being? "That's not what Mycroft said."
"Mycroft is an arse. He knows that's not why..." Sherlock suddenly cut his words off, his eyes darting to John's before he immediately began feigning a frankly unbelievable degree of fascination with the computer screen.
"What?" John was missing something, he could feel it. What had Mycroft said exactly?
["You were growing careless, brother. It is high time you came in from the cold."]
John felt a strange tingling in his fingers. He had felt it before, every now and again, especially in Afghanistan. It was his body's way of telling him that something was not quite right, before his brain had figured it out.
"Why did you come back?" he found himself asking. "I mean, why now?" He found his words gaining confidence, the more he thought it through. "You said yourself that it wasn't safe. You certainly weren't planning on staying here, you were furious when Mycroft told you. If you weren't getting sloppy, if you didn't need Mycroft's backup, why did you come back before it was done?"
To John's startlement, Sherlock slammed the computer shut. He dropped it carelessly to the floor.
"You want me to sleep, John? Fine."
He heaved himself over on his side, curling up like a shrimp, and closed his eyes.
John was torn between exasperation, confusion, and overwhelming, ridiculous affection.
"Oh no, you magnificent prat, don't think you can avoid me like that."
He turned off the light anyway, the room lit now only by the face of his clock and the dim reflection of streetlights sneaking in round the edges of his curtains.
He pulled off his shoes and socks, and then shed his belt and his jumper before lying down beside Sherlock in his trousers and t-shirt.
They lay there in silence for a few minutes, John listening to Sherlock feign deep, even breathing. If John wasn't mistaken, Sherlock even threw in an artistic little snuffling snore. He didn't actually think this would work, did he?
"So, you're not going to tell me then?"
He felt Sherlock heave himself onto his back, practically radiating petulance. "Why were you drinking?" he asked sharply.
"What?" The counterattack was so abrupt it took a moment for the question to sink in, John's heart racing with belated reaction. By then Sherlock was off and running, the stream of deductions so rapid John could barely follow his words.
"You have the same routine, every Friday, but only on Friday. Beer and whiskey. Why both? You never have company, no one for whom you would be buying one or the other. And if the object were to get drunk, you would simply start with the whiskey and continue accordingly. You are an experienced drinker, although scrupulous about over-imbibing given your family's predilection towards alcoholism, and you have always previously limited your alcohol consumption to social contexts. You would know that a carbonated alcoholic beverage followed by hard liquor is a recipe for hangover, and yet you continue with both. Despite the appearance of this flat you have no need to economize with cheaper alcohol, if you did you would purchase the beer in larger amounts, by the case, or a cheaper brand of whiskey than the one you consume, which appears to be a brand favored by you largely because you sentimentally associate it with a male family member — not your father, who was a gin drunk; a more moderate drinker, likely an uncle or — no, grandfather. On your mother's side, Scottish of course, the Hamish for whom you have been saddled with your middle name. In any event, you purchase them on a rotating schedule; a six-pack of beer every third week and a 750 milliliter bottle of whiskey approximately every ten weeks, indicating that you consume approximately two bottles of beer and 75 milliliters of whiskey per week, or three shots of whiskey, assuming a standard 25 milliliter shot. Except for the week you apparently tried to quit and rid yourself of your supply, but then returned to consumption very late that evening, repurchasing both. You are not alcohol-dependent, at least not yet. You show no signs of drinking or hangover during the week. You appear to consume the full amount only on Friday evenings, as evidenced by the empty bottles in your recycling bin and the contents of your stomach when you vomited this morning. Why?"
John lay in silence, no doubt gaping. That's amazing, his mind said. And then it said, Oh, fuck.
Sherlock was looking at him now. John couldn't see him in the dim light, hadn't heard him turn his head, but he could feel that unearthly gaze on him, stripping away his secrets, laying him bare.
Feeling like a coward, he turned his back on Sherlock.
"Good night, Sherlock," he said.
"You're not going to tell me, then?" It should have been mocking, his own words from a few minutes ago spoken back to him, but it wasn't. Sherlock's voice sounded genuinely confused and...hurt.
John gritted his teeth, wishing he had a better answer.
"I — no. I'm not."
He waited, sweating in silence, to see if Sherlock would push the issue. Instead he heard quiet rustling, as Sherlock seemed to turn his back as well.
"Good night, John."
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