A/N: You have no idea how much of a horrible human being I feel like right now. I am so sorry that this took so long for me to post. Please forgive me! I'll do my best to get several chapters written over spring break. But for now, please enjoy this chapter and feel free to comment!
Chapter Five
Sherlock stepped out onto the fire escape and tapped out a cigarette, lighting it quickly. As John followed him, stopping at the window, he took a long drag, releasing it in a slow sigh. As much as he was aware that what he was doing was slowly killing him cell by cell, Sherlock didn't care. His addiction was set in place and even though he probably did have it in him to quit at any time, he didn't fancy the idea.
Smoking, however, was not his only unhealthy habit. During the school year, Sherlock would drabble in the occasional recreational drug, cocaine mostly, but he had tried heroin once. Heroin he had not enjoyed, mostly because coming down had been the worst experience of his life. He had crashed after nearly 10 straight hours of his most brilliant brainwork to date, and had ended up sleeping for twice that amount of time. When he woke, it had felt as if someone had beaten him, his body was so sore, and his head throbbed with a migraine that had yet to be matched. That was the first and only time Sherlock Holmes would shoot up with heroin; cocaine, yes, heroin, no.
Taking another drag from his cigarette, Sherlock glanced over at John, who was staring at him from the open bedroom window. He had an ugly scowl on his face. Releasing the smoke from his lungs in an annoyed sigh, he turned to face the footballer.
"Problem?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"You know those are going to kill you one day, don't you?" John said, his scowl deepening.
Sherlock let out a short laugh and took a deep, pointed breath from his fag, letting it out in rings. John just continued to glare at him.
As Sherlock finished his cigarette, John leaned forward on the window sill. "You're going to end up with lung cancer and emphysema and heart disease and high blood pressure and whatever other smoking-related diseases there are out there," he finally said in a completely serious tone, picking at a loose paint chip.
Sherlock stared at the footballer for a moment. He refused to look up, keeping his eyes focused completely on the paint chip. His brows were furrowed and there was a frown firmly embedded where his normally cheerful mouth should have been. His shoulders were somewhat hunched from having to hold the majority of his weight on his forearms, which were resting on the window sill. So, in summary, John Watson looked adorable, and Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at how utterly ridiculous he was being.
However, it seemed that John didn't enjoy being laughed at, because his eyes shot up at Sherlock instantly, hard as steel. "What the hell is so funny?" he demanded.
"You!" Sherlock barked out, the cigarette butt falling from between his fingers and he clutched his side. "You're being absolutely absurd, and the look on your face is completely adorable." He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself and looked up a John, a smile on his face.
John did not seem to consider this response acceptable, because he had turned on his heel and stomped back into the flat, shoulders stiff, fists balled at his sides. With a choked noise that comes from laughter being abruptly cut off, Sherlock scrambled through the open window after him.
"John!" he called down the stairs, taking them two at a time. "John! Would you stop and talk to me! For god's sake, you're acting like a child!"
The footballer reeled back, his face angry. "Pardon me for worrying about your health, Sherlock Holmes!" he retorted, his voice slightly raised. "I was only trying to look out for you, because for some god forsaken reason I care! After only three days, I care about you more than anyone else! I'm sorry if that's inconvenient or incomprehensible to you, because you're so good at hiding how you feel behind those damned walls!" He took a deep, ragged breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Damn it." He sat down on the coffee table, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. "I'm sorry," he mumbled after a few moments, not raising his head. "I'm sorry. This is just—overwhelming. Not so used to letting people in myself." John laughed one short, dry laugh.
Sherlock seated himself in the grey chair opposite the one John had clearly claimed as his own, feet planted firmly on the floor and his forearms resting on his knees, hands dangling between. He watched John for a few minutes, watched his shoulders rise and fall as he breathed. Finally, he bit his lip and spoke.
"I'll quit," he said in a quiet, unsure voice.
John still didn't look up. "What?" he sighed, his fingers sliding fractionally into his blonde hair.
"Smoking." Sherlock stared at a spot just beyond John's left shoulder. "If it bothers you, I'll stop."
John did look up this time, his eyes wide with surprise. "What?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking the blonde in the face. "Please don't make me repeat myself again, redundancy is so dull."
"You would quit smoking for me?" John asked, sitting up a little bit straighter. "Why?"
"If it bothers you, I'll stop. It's really as simple as that." He picked at a piece of lint clinging to the shirt of John's that he was wearing.
"That doesn't answer my question, Sherlock," the footballer said frankly, gazing intently at him.
Sherlock fidgeted, twisting the hem of the tee-shirt between his fingers again and again, trying to avoid answering. When John growled in irritation and stood, he looked up.
"Fine, don't answer me," John hissed, squaring his shoulders and turning to storm off to some other part of the flat.
"I thought the answer would be obvious," Sherlock said quickly, his body bringing him to his feet without his permission. He swallowed.
"Well, clearly it's not," John spat, rounding on Sherlock once again. He stepped back in surprise, the back of his heel colliding with the leg of the chair not quite painfully. "Not everyone is as brilliant and clever as you apparently are."
"I realize that," Sherlock snapped, his eyes hardening to ice. "But I didn't think you needed me to say it aloud."
"Of course I need you to say it aloud!" John exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I'm not a goddamn mind-reader!"
"Fine then. John Watson, I will quit smoking if it bothers you because I care about you, and even though I've known you for three days, the idea of you being unhappy is painful. There, are you pleased now?" Sherlock gritted his teeth together, shoulders tense.
Even though he knew John had wanted to hear the words, Sherlock could still tell that they came as a surprise to him, as if he hadn't expected him to actually say them. He stood there in the middle of the room, blinking almost dumbly at him, his mouth hanging slightly open. Then he looked away, blushing pink, and Sherlock felt his frustration drain away, only to be replaced by a tugging feeling at his heart. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was pull John into his arms and hold him as tightly as possible. It was completely irrational.
"Would you really quit, Sherlock?" John finally asked, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.
"If it bothered you, yes, I would."
"It does bother me," John admitted nervously, his eyes trailing from Sherlock's, to his mouth, and back again. He licked his lips.
"Then I'll stop." Sherlock took his only pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and stepped forward, placing it in John's hand. He watched John closely as he stared down at them, knowing he was wondering what to do and, most likely, whether or not Sherlock was really telling the truth. And he was telling the truth; he would quit smoking. John needn't know about his other unhealthy doings, what he didn't know couldn't hurt him. "I promise."
"And the lighter?" John closed his hand around the carton and moved his eyes back up to Sherlock.
Sherlock grinned. "There are all sorts of uses for lighters other than cigarettes. Why throw it away? I swear that's the only pack I have, and I won't go out and buy more." He looked at the footballer seriously now. He could tell that he was weighing the options, deciding if Sherlock was telling the truth, or if he wasn't. He hopped that one day he could make John trust him unconditionally, but he understood the feeling of uncertainty. The idea of putting his trust so completely in someone was frightening, and the idea of what would come if that trust were broken was even more so.
John seemed to come to his decision and Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts.
"Okay." He set the cigarettes on the coffee table and took a step forward so that they were now mere inches from one another. Sherlock gazed down at John as he reached out and smoothed a hand over his chest, his fingers lingering over his heart. He cleared his throat and stepped away, too soon for Sherlock's liking.
"The tea's probably gone cold," John mumbled, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
Sherlock hummed in agreement, watching him through half-lidded eyes, and the two walked slowly back to the kitchen. John poured their cold tea down the sink and started a fresh kettle. But before he could turn or leave the kitchen, Sherlock pressed himself against his back, and wrapped his arms around his waist, holding him firmly in place.
"The smoking isn't the only thing you were upset with me about, John," he breathed, his lips brushing against the outer shell of John's ear. He felt the footballer shudder against him. "What was the other reason?" He nuzzled his cheek against his shoulder.
Sherlock could feel John's skin flush and John cleared his throat. "It was nothing, really, Sherlock," he said after a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot again. "Like I said earlier on, it was just silly. Nothing to worry about."
"I'd still like to know," Sherlock whispered, letting his lips brush against the back of the footballer's neck. "Please."
He heard John swallow hard. "It was just—I was upset about—that is very distracting, Sherlock," he said breathily, tilting his head slightly to the side as Sherlock placed chaste kisses along the side of his neck.
Sherlock chuckled under his breath and pressed his cheek back to John's shoulder, trying to lessen the distraction. "You were upset about what?"
John shook his head in an attempt to clear it. "Ah—I was upset because you used that snippy tone and seemed to be annoyed with the fact that I want to take things slowly." He cleared his throat.
"And you thought I was trying to push you." It was a statement, not a question. Sherlock stood straighter and turned John around so they were facing. "I'm not pushing you into anything."
He watched John's eyes as they darted over his face. "Okay," the footballer said quietly after a moment.
He still seemed thoroughly distracted, so Sherlock took the opportunity to lean down and steal a kiss. He pulled away just as the pressure was returned and whispered softly, "Kettle's whistling," and pulled away completely, settling into a kitchen chair.
He enjoyed the momentarily dazed look on John's face, before he ran a hand through his hair and placed a tea bag in either of the cups he had set out before, pouring the steaming water in after the bags. Sherlock traced his eyes over the outline of John's body as he brought the mugs to the table and went back for the jar of honey. He paused midway back only to turn and retrieve the little pot of sugar from the counter as well.
Sherlock smiled, but quickly masked over it, more out of habit than anything else. John didn't seem to notice though and just sat across from him, setting the sugar and honey down in the middle of the table. Sherlock reached out and removed the lid from the sugar, scooping two spoonfuls into his tea, stirring it slowly, keeping his gaze steady on John.
"Would you like anything to eat?" John asked around his mug, his eyes level with Sherlock's.
"No, thank you. I'm not hungry." He wasn't at all surprised to see that John was. Surprised that was. It had been probably close to seventeen or eighteen hours since they had both eaten last. He didn't eat much though, never really had.
"Are you sure?" John pressed, gazing at Sherlock over the top of his mug, his eyebrows raised.
"Mm," Sherlock hummed, sipping his tea. He let his eyes travel slowly down John's face and back up again. He found that he rather liked the crease the footballer got between his brows when he knit them together. He licked his lips and let his eyes wander to his neck and throat.
Unable to stop himself, Sherlock set his mug on the kitchen table and stood, walking slowly around until he was directly in front of John, staring down at him. He was still sipping his tea, an eyebrow quirked in curiosity.
"What is it?" John set his tea on the table and Sherlock swallowed, leaning down and brushing his lips against the blonde's cheek, letting his hands rest on the back of his chair at either of his shoulders. He moved his lips to John's jaw, kissing softly along to the hollow beneath his ear. "Sherlock," he breathed, his hands, weather unconsciously or not, moving up at rest on Sherlock's chest, gripping the fabric of the shirt tightly.
Sherlock hummed low in his throat, slowly lowering himself so that he was seated lightly on the footballer's lap, his hands moving down his body and back up again until they reached the back of his neck, where they pushed into soft blonde hair. He moved his mouth to John's, kissing him slowly, just the barest of brushes, an invitation. He was pleased when John pressed against him, his tongue pushing at his lips. Sherlock happily parted them and tasted John in his mouth, a slight hint of mint toothpaste and tea behind it. He was sure he still tasted of cigarette smoke and wished he had had time to clean his teeth, or at least rinse his mouth with Listerine. John didn't seem to mind though.
Suddenly, John made a noise of surprise and pulled away, his eyes slightly wide. Sherlock stared at him, unable to mask the look of disappointed at the loss of contact. When he felt the blonde's hand on his wrist, he started. His right hand, which had, only moments before, been clutching at John's hair, had somehow wormed its way between the two of them, his fingers trying to dip below the waistband of the footballer's trousers. He stared for a moment before turning a bewildered gaze to John.
The blonde was flushed red, his hand still tightly gripping Sherlock's wrist, but he didn't push him off, which Sherlock took as a good sign. Slowly, tentatively, he pulled his hand away, sliding it up John's stomach, chest, to rest lightly on his shoulder. Not removing his eyes from John's he leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, and another, and another. Gradually, John began to relax, the tension draining from his muscles, and kissed back, letting his hands rest on Sherlock's hips, his fingers pressing under the hem of his shirt.
Sighing, Sherlock let his hands snake around John's shoulders, pushing his left hand into his sandy hair. Tugging slightly, he tilted the footballer's head back and kissed down his chin to his neck, sucking at the pulse point just below his jaw. He felt John hitch his breath, and the hands on his hips tightened their grip, pulling him forward a little. Sherlock let his teeth skim down John's neck, nipping at a spot he had recorded as being sensitive; he was rewarded with a sharp gasp followed by a low moan, and suddenly, the hands that had been grasping so firmly at his hips, were pushing his shirt up, fingertips pressing into the flesh between his shoulders.
With his shirt now rucked up around his ribs, Sherlock felt the fabric of John's rubbing against his stomach. He let his right hand slide back down John's chest and pulled the piece of clothing up, smoothing his fingers over the muscles of his abdomen. John shivered.
"Our tea's probably gone—it's probably gone cold—again," Sherlock heard John gasp.
He let out a bemused laugh, kissing down John's neck before running his tongue from his throat to his chin. Even in this state, John was worried about the damned tea. Sherlock had a feeling that the footballer was a bit of tea snob.
"Bugger the tea," he growled, pulling up so he could look John in the eye. They were soft and a deeper blue than any ocean. His breath caught and he lowered his mouth back to John's, taking his bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling lightly. He felt the blonde shiver, and couldn't help but rock his hips against his, groaning into the kiss.
The kiss grew slowly fiercer, with John's fingernails digging into Sherlock's shoulder blades, and Sherlock's tongue pushing past the barrier of John's lips. Sherlock's hand in the footballer's hair tightened, pulling harder than he had intended, but the effect was nice, with John moaning into his mouth. He swallowed up the sound, running his tongue along the soft inner edge of John's bottom lip. He let out a little yelp of surprise when teeth closed lightly around the tip, and it was sucked back into the mouth he was kissing. Sherlock moaned quietly and slide the hand that was still stroking at John's abdomen, around the boy's back, pulling him closer so that their stomachs were pressed tightly together.
After a moment, John pulled away gasping, his eyes wide.
"Sherlock," he whispered after he had recaptured his breath, "have you ever kissed anyone before?"
Sherlock thought it was a rather odd question, one that he could have sworn he had answered the night before. However, his mind was so muddle up in the moment, that the only things he was really sure of were the facts that he had just been snogging the most perfect being in the world and that he had a little bit of a problem developing, and as his shifted his weight slightly, apparently so did John.
"I've kissed you," he stated plainly, resting his forehead against John's and drawing in a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. "But that's not what you mean."
John shook his head, but just barely.
"I've only kissed you," Sherlock clarified, the tips of his fingers rubbing small circles against John's scalp.
"Only kissed me…." the blonde murmured, and Sherlock watched as his eyes searched him, keeping his face perfectly composed and blank. "Why?"
It was his turn to search John's face, and the footballer's emotions and thoughts were written plainly over his features. Sherlock saw there, curiosity, which was to be expected, excitement, most likely because of the activity they had just participated in, and nervousness. There was also nervousness, but Sherlock didn't understand why, and it was a frustrating thing for a Holmes to not know something. But now the task at hand was to decide whether or not he wanted to answer John's question with the truth or an outright lie. Some pulling, nagging voice inside his head told him to lie, while another that he rarely heard, told him that telling the truth would bring the best out come in the long run. In the end, the truth seemed like the better option.
"As I told you last night at dinner, I've never been remotely interested in any member of the same or opposite sex," he started.
"Yes, you said that you didn't think yourself capable of being interested in anybody. What did you mean by that exactly?" Sherlock shivered as John's hands slipped down his back to rest once more on his hips.
"I meant just that. I didn't think myself capable. Until I met you, I'd always considered myself to be asexual, because in all of my seventeen years I have never been physically or emotionally attracted to another person, male or female." I gauged John's reaction before continuing. "And I think if I had never met you, it would have remained that way."
"You can't know that," John replied, a scornful sort of note underlying his tone.
"Perhaps not, but seeing as I have never once been attracted to anyone, I think it's safe to say that it's more than likely the truth. You seem to be the one exception."
John hummed, rubbing his hands against the skin at Sherlock's hips. "Wonder why that is."
"As silly as it sounds, have you ever heard of the term 'soul-mates'?" Sherlock asked, combing his fingers slowly through the footballer's hair. The other look slightly started at the mention of such an intimate term and Sherlock quickly began to explain. "What I mean is that when people typically think of 'soul-mates,' they think of people who, from the very first day, are always together, who were made of one another, so to speak. We have personalities that are compatible on virtually every level and that's why we feel this way. Hormones and pheromones play a big role as well, I'm sure."
"God, when you say it like that, it sounds so…." John paused, trying to grapple on to the right word. "Scientific," he finished lamely, it was clearly not the word he had wanted to use, but no other in the English language seemed to come to his aid.
"It is, I suppose."
John looked away, his eyes downcast, his shoulder slumped, and Sherlock was surprised. "John," he said quickly, sliding the hand that was tangled in the footballer's hair to rest at the side of his face, stroking his thumb along his cheekbone. "You took that the wrong way."
"How did I?" John mumbled, not raising his eyes, his brows furrowing a little bit.
"You said that what we have sounds scientific, and you're not wrong, there is a science behind every attraction between every person. But there are also emotions that are illogical and irrational. And from what I can tell, and what I've observed of other people, the emotions always outweigh the science. The science is just there." Sherlock shook his head, frustrated with himself. He couldn't explain it right and even in his own ears it sounded like he was rambling.
"How do I know that I'm not just some science experiment to you?" John whispered, still keeping his eyes glued to a point just beyond Sherlock's left hip.
"You are not a science experiment, John Watson." Sherlock's voice was hard.
Finally John looked him in the face, and Sherlock had to fight all of his instincts not to clear his emotions from his expression. Somehow, he knew John needed to see them there in order to believe the words he was speaking.
"Okay," the blonde whispered at length.
Sherlock stood up, pulling John with him, and they made their way to the sofa. He sat and tugged the other to sit beside him.
"Do you want to watch a bit of telly?" John suggested after a few minutes, and Sherlock just hummed, nuzzling his face against the side of his neck, kissing every few seconds.
John turned on the television and flipped through the channels before settling for some terrible crime show that Sherlock didn't pay attention to.
—
Several hours later, the sun had gone down and Sherlock somehow found himself pinned on his back to the sofa, John Watson pressing down on him, kissing him softly. He couldn't complain, really, it was comfortable and John made an excellent blanket against the chill that was drafting through the room. He sighed, letting his fingers doodle little circles on John's lower back where his skin was exposed.
John pulled back to rest his forehead against Sherlock's, looking him in the eye.
"How could I have fallen for you this hard in four days?" he asked in a hushed voice, brushing a stray curl from Sherlock's eyes. "It's completely mental."
Sherlock chuckled in his throat, tightening his arms around John's waist. "Of course it's mental. If human beings were sane creatures, we wouldn't drabble in subjects like emotion. Emotion is a catalyst for bad things and we knowingly stoke its fire ever second of every minute of every hour of every day. And we call ourselves cleverest life-forms on the planet," he scuffed.
"I dunno," John said, pushing his left hand through Sherlock's tangled curls. "This isn't bad, is it? What we've got right now. And emotions aren't the cause of all horrible things. Natural disasters for example."
Sherlock laughed, shaking his head. "That is not what I meant, John, and you know it. Think about this. Why was World War I started?"
"Because Arch-Duke Ferdinand was assassinated," John answered immediately.
"Yes, but that's only half the reason. Austria declared war on Serbia because their duke had been assassinated; they wanted revenge. What emotion fuels the desire for revenge?" John shrugged and shook his head. "Anger, John, anger fuels revenge. Adolph Hitler rallied an entire nation. How did he manage such an incredible feat? He manipulated the emotions of the people who were victimized at the end of World War I by the Treaty of Versailles. They were feeling weak and he rose up and was a great leader to them, made them feel safe. His intentions were wrong and he proved to be completely psychotic. He wanted to groom the perfect race of humans, why? Because he felt that he deserved to be the ruler of the world and that blonde-hair, blue-eyed people were dominate in the gene pool. What emotion was the foundation of this? Greed and idiocy."
"Idiocy isn't an emotion," John laughed.
"Well it ought to be," Sherlock grumbled. "Anyway. Emotions only lead to bad things."
"You're only thinking about the negative aspects of history, Sherlock," John disagreed, propping himself up on his elbows so he could look Sherlock straight in the eye. "History does not dictate our relationship. Emotions might lead to some pretty horrible events, sure, but that's not always the case."
Sherlock thought for a moment, not taking his eyes from John's. It was like he could see all the way into his mind through those eyes, and it was fascinating. "Maybe," he finally said. "But all of the important dates are governed by negative emotions that do negative things. It's just a fact of nature."
"What about holidays?" the footballer countered, his brows knitting together. "Those aren't governed by negativity. They're about family and thankfulness and love."
"They're all corporate now. All about big companies making money. Nothing but greed," Sherlock sniffed. "Most families give presents and eat food, nothing more."
"Not all families. Some actually come together and enjoy the time they spend with one another. They go to church, they laugh, they smile." Sherlock could see the crease now, between John's brows.
"Do they really?" he asked. He was honestly shocked to hear this. In all of his experiences of the holidays, mostly Christmas, his parents had left town and his entire family gathered under one roof to eat all of the food stored in the pantry. There was nothing pleasant about it, nothing fun, nothing enjoyable. It was simply an obligation.
"Yes. They do, Sherlock. Have you never had a proper Christmas?" Sherlock knew John meant it as a joke, but a statement as true as that was not funny. "My god. Have you really never had a proper Christmas?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "Christmas in my family is a bit—ah—force. Everyone gathers under one roof—usually our roof—once a year, and they all squawk about business and politics. It's unbearable and I usually excuse myself after dinner. Mummy and Father typically aren't even in town." His muscles tensed as he spoke. Talking about his family wasn't something he usually enjoyed doing.
"What do you mean?" The crease between John's brows was very deep now indeed.
"They usually holiday in someplace warm for Christmas. Like the south-pacific or Fiji. They can't stand Mycroft and me under the same roof together, let alone the entire family." Sherlock could taste the bitterness of the words on his tongue.
"Oh." John dropped his gaze to a place beside Sherlock's neck and gnawed at his bottom lip.
"What're you thinking, John?" Sherlock asked quietly, squirming a little beneath the footballer's comfortable weight.
"I—it's just—it's nothing. Just a silly idea." He didn't look up.
"What? What is your 'silly idea,' John Watson?"
"I was just thinking—perhaps—maybe you could—instead of spending Christmas dinner with your family, since you seem to hate it so much, maybe you'd like to join Mrs Hudson an me for dinner?" John finished in a rush, his cheeks tinting a lovely pink.
A smile slowly spread across Sherlock's face and he reached up and pressed his mouth to John's. "I would love to," he breathed when he pulled away. "It sure beats the hell out of spending any amount of time with my family. Horrible lot." He wrinkled his nose.
After a moment, he glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. It was very late and as much as he hated the idea of leaving John for the night, he needed to get home.
"I have to go, John. It's late and my brother has probably been wondering where I am. I dread looking at my phone. It's probably completely full with messages and texts from him."
John groaned, burying his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck. "D'you really have to leave?" he mumbled and Sherlock shivered as his breath tickled his skin.
"I really have to leave. I'd stay, but I haven't got anything to wear in the morning." He scratched his fingernails over the blonde's lower back.
"I could come with you?" John suggested hopefully.
Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. It was a daft idea. He knew that if Mycroft found John, there would be an endless stream of questions: who are his parents, where is he from, what school does he go to, what does he do in his spare time, etc, etc, etc. All questions Sherlock would rather avoid. And really, they were all stupid questions; Mycroft could find out anything he wanted about John Watson with the push of a button. It was probably the case that he already knew where Sherlock was and with whom. His brother did love to waist the country's resources for his own petty reasons.
"No, I don't think that's such a good idea. You wouldn't like my brother much," he said once he stopped laughing.
"Please?" And the breath was knocked out of Sherlock at the site of John's wide eyes staring pleadingly down at him. For the first time in his life, he, Sherlock Holmes, was actually being begged for something, with puppy-dog-eyes no less, at it was actually working. What sort of spell did John Watson have him under and how could he break it? But then, perhaps he didn't want it broken….
He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Fine. But if and when you meet my brother, don't say that I didn't warn you, because I most certainly did." Sherlock slid his hands from John's back to his chest and pushed him off, sitting up and stretching his arms over his head. "Well, let's get going then." He stood and walked to the door, pulled on his coat and scarf, and slipped on his trainers. John followed him, doing the same. "Wait. Bring a change of clothes and anything you'll need."
John nodded and made for his bedroom. A couple of minutes later he returned with an overnight bag on his shoulder.