[Author's Note: Not to tease, but the next chapter is the one I've been so excited to get to, so I'm going to try to post two chapters this weekend, one right now (obviously) and one tonight or tomorrow. Please reward me accordingly with reviews. :-D Also, there's something about the description of Sherlock as a "deranged fruit-bat" that sprang to my mind so fully-formed and seems so unnaturally perfect that I suspect I read it somewhere else. Googling couldn't find me a fanfic that used the term, but if I subconsciously cribbed it from one of the eleventy-billion Sherlock fanfics I've gorged myself on over the past few months I apologize; please let me know and I'll change or attribute it accordingly.]
John made his way down the dairy aisle at Tesco's, Sherlock's voice ringing in his ears from the litany of instructions he had imparted this morning.
["Behave exactly as you would on any other Sunday, John. Do not adjust your routine in any way. Except for the nicotine patches, don't forget the nicotine patches. But don't get caught nicking them. You look guilty already — don't look guilty. And remember to slump. Look sad. Stop at Tesco's on your way back as usual, but only get what you typically buy. A little more hunched — there it is. And for God's sake, try not to look like you're being watched!"]
The day had been agony, patient after patient at the surgery with the typical mind-numbingly minor complaints, and then this pointless trip to Tesco's, trying the whole time to seem like his usual, grieving self. Trying not to rush back to his flat to see Sherlock again. And above all else, trying hard as hell not to think about this morning. Because as chilly as their goodnights had been he had somehow, inexplicably, woken up this morning with an armful of consulting detective.
More than an armful, in fact. The two of them had been twined together like — well, an appropriate simile was escaping his scattered mind at the moment, but picture something exceptionally...twiney. His face had been nestled into Sherlock's neck, his arms around Sherlock's waist, while Sherlock had one remarkably weighty arm across John's shoulders. And their legs — John's own shorter legs had been all mixed in with Sherlock's endless, trousered limbs, bare foot to trousered calf, one of John's knees pinned securely between Sherlock's long thighs...
John realized that he had absent-mindedly picked up a packet of the chocolate biscuits Sherlock liked, and hurriedly put it back on the shelf, exchanging it for the gingersnap biscuits he preferred. Damn it all. He would not put himself and Sherlock in the way of a sniper's bullet, just because he was distracted by memories of Sherlock — no matter how enticing those dark curls had seemed against the snow-white pillow as John had surreptitiously extricated himself. He had watched Sherlock's face carefully to be certain he showed no signs of waking, but it had remained slack and gentled somehow with sleep, his lashes dark against creamy skin, that impossible pink mouth just slightly open...
Bloody hell. Even a row with the Chip and PIN machine would be a welcome distraction right now.
Fortunately, as John found out approximately twenty minutes later, there is no greater cure for lust than the object of said lust being an absolute, unbelievable, twat.
"For Christ's sake, John, did you return from the surgery via Sussex? I would have thought that even you could manage to go seven blocks without getting lost. Did you not realize that I've been trapped in this nightmare of a flat for an eternity?"
Welcome home, John said to himself. He ignored the tall man whizzing maniacally around the tiny flat like some sort of deranged fruit-bat and started putting the groceries away.
"It's been one day, Sherlock," he said quellingly.
"One day of absolute, execrable, mind-numbing boredom, John. Eight hours and thirty-seven minutes of relentless, detestable tedium. Thirty-one thousand and twenty seconds of unbearable, soul-crushing dullness."
"How fortunate that you survived," John murmured.
"I mean really, John, what are you trying to accomplish with this dreadful flat? There's not even a telly, and I know how you absolutely rely upon your horrible telly. Is this monastic disavowal of all worldly possessions supposed to indicate some measure of your grief, the real estate equivalent of a hair shirt, or — "
"Stop." John hardly recognized his own voice. It cracked loudly through the air, echoing in the suddenly silent flat. His hand had clenched so tightly around the gingersnap biscuits that he could feel they were in crumbles.
He put the biscuits down carefully, gently, only distantly aware that his whole body was shaking with rage.
"Don't you dare," he said, voice tight with suppressed fury, staring down at the crumpled packet of biscuits because he didn't know what he'd do if he looked at Sherlock right now. "Don't you dare make light of how I grieved for you. Don't you even begin to think that you can judge what I did, what I had to do, just to keep going after you left me."
"You're still angry about that." Christ, Sherlock didn't even have the decency to make it a question, just a realization.
"Of course I'm still angry about that."
"But I explained..."
"You explained why you thought you had to do it. And I understood, because I know you, Sherlock, I know how you think. You thought that if you told me, I would go skipping around town, singing tra-la-la, and all and sundry would know that you were alive, yeah? You didn't trust my acting skills, you thought I had to look the part of bereaved John Watson, to lull all the bad guys into complacency. What you didn't even think about, you utter wanker, what you didn't even consider..."
And god, on some level he knew he wasn't considering either, or these words wouldn't be coming out of his mouth, but he was just too angry to care...
"...is that you could have told me at any time. Even if I had known that you were alive, don't you think it would have been enough to know that you were out there, somewhere, chasing the most dangerous of criminals, without me at your back? Don't you think that the grief of parting from you, never knowing if you would return, never knowing if you were even dead or alive, would have shown on my face every minute of every day? Don't you think that would have been enough to fool anyone into thinking I was a man mourning the loss of his flatmate?" He spat the last word as if it were a curse.
"...But no, you didn't think of any of that, did you? Instead you left me, Sherlock, you left me in utter anguish, for almost a year. So yeah, if you sense a slight hint of anger from time to time, that is why." He stared down at his hands. They were still shaking. "That is why," he repeated woodenly.
He felt Sherlock moving closer and shut his eyes, trying to get himself under control. If Sherlock pushed him right now, if he tried to argue him out of this — tell John how damned illogical his feelings were — he might just snap.
The first light, hesitant touch of Sherlock's hand on his shoulder shocked him. He barely had time to draw in a startled breath and then Sherlock was pressing closer, nudging in somewhat awkwardly until he had his arms looped loosely around John's stiff body.
"Sherlock," John started, pulling back.
Sherlock's arms tightened around John so quickly that John was pulled off balance, landing hard up against Sherlock's chest. He huffed out an annoyed breath, bracing his hands to push Sherlock off him, and then...
"I'm sorry." Sherlock's words were so quiet he could barely make them out, but they caused John to freeze, his fingers suddenly grasping instead of pushing away the silk shirt beneath his fingers. It was only the second time he had ever heard Sherlock apologize to anyone. John could feel Sherlock's breath against the top of his head, ruffling his hair. "I'm sorry," Sherlock said again, his voice ragged.
John felt some of the sudden anger drain out of him, making him feel suddenly weightless, his head buzzing and his heart still racing with reaction. He took a deep breath and then allowed himself to lean into Sherlock's warmth. Sherlock's heartbeat thumped beneath his forehead, a little too rapid as well.
Christ, this was dangerous, but he couldn't help it, couldn't stop his hands from moving down until his arms were around Sherlock as well, returning his embrace. He took another deep breath, letting it out slowly against the soft warm skin at the lee of Sherlock's neck and shoulder.
"It had to be temporary," he finally mumbled into Sherlock's collar.
"Hmmm?" Sherlock sounded a little distracted.
"The flat." John kept his head down, unable to meet Sherlock's eyes. "When I was first invalided out of the Army, I was in a place like this, and it felt like my life was over. Like part of me had died in Afghanistan. I was suffocating, slowly. And then you came along, and..."
He shrugged, unable to explain it better. "I could breathe again. I was alive again. And I could look back at that time in the bedsit as being just...a transition." He could feel the tightening of Sherlock's arms around him as he understood, but John had to get the words out anyway. "As long as I was in a place like this, I could tell myself that it was just temporary. That something would happen to make it all better. Classic denial, I know, but..." The sound he made should have been a laugh, but came out embarrassingly close to a sob. "If I got a real flat somewhere, it would mean facing up to it. Looking towards the future, and a future without you — I couldn't face it. I'd rather stay here in limbo."
"John," Sherlock said, and if there had even been a hint of pity in his voice it would have broken John, but instead there was just...wonder.
"You were right," Sherlock finally said, and that was one more for the record books. "I didn't understand. I thought that you would be...sad. I thought that you would miss the cases, and Baker Street. But you are so unlike me, John. You have so much in your life — your work, and your friends, and your...girlfriends." His voice rasped a little on that last word, but before John could even wonder at it he was continuing. "I thought that you might miss the life we had, but you would adjust."
John took a deep breath, screwing up his courage. "It was never about the cases, or the flat, or any of that. It was always about you. Just...being with you."
He could feel Sherlock nod, the sharp chin brushing against his hair. "I...miscalculated," he said, sounding so genuinely peeved at himself that John almost laughed. "The validity of predictive data is only as good as prior historical data, and the preponderance of data I had accrued previously led me to a false assumption..." He stopped, and John felt him take in a deep, shuddering breath. "I did not believe that I could inspire those sorts of feelings in anyone," Sherlock said in a rush of breath.
John shook his head slowly, savoring these last moments against Sherlock's skin before pulling back to finally look into those pale eyes. He let himself touch, a brush of his fingers to push back the hair at Sherlock's temple, his thumb lingering on that devastating cheekbone. "You're telling the truth," John said, feeling something finally click into place. "You really didn't think that anyone would grieve for you."
Sherlock's mouth twisted, half a grimace and half a smile. "As always, John, you confounded my expectations."
["You have always been different from the rest. Surprising. Confounding." Dream-Sherlock paused, and placed a kiss on the crown of John's head that sent pleasure rippling down his spine. "Extraordinary," dream-Sherlock breathed into his hair. "My John."]
The sudden memory rattled John. He pulled away somewhat awkwardly, wiping his misty eyes with his hand and clearing his throat with a half-hearted laugh.
"Look at us, all emotional and carrying on. You'd think we weren't even British." John resorted to humor to try to lighten the atmosphere, but even he could tell it fell flat. Still, Sherlock merely gave him a thoughtful look.
"My mother is French," he said.
"Is she?" John was relieved to change the subject. "She wasn't at — I mean, I've never — " Christ, could he just think before he spoke for once?
Sherlock seemed to be watching his babbling with wry amusement. "I think what you're trying so very hard not to say, John, is that she wasn't at my funeral." He made one of his elegant and untranslatable hand gestures, and John could see the Gallic influence now. "Despite her ancestry, emotional displays are...not really her area."
"Well." John moved into the kitchen, busying himself with the kettle. "We can't all wear our hearts on our sleeves," he found himself muttering disconsolately into the sink. Now that the rush of feeling was past, he could feel embarrassment creeping in, sending a warm flush of color up his neck. Was he ever going to be able to spend an hour in Sherlock's presence again without attacking the man in anger, crying into his shirt, or both?
He turned around to plug in the kettle and found Sherlock looming unexpectedly close, the expression in his grey eyes intense and yet unreadable. "Don't ever apologize for caring, John. It is what makes you...extraordinary."
John turned around self-consciously, busying himself with the cups and teabags, but found himself smiling.
Extraordinary, his mind found itself repeating, savoring, and then...extrapolating. My John.
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