It took an hour before Sherlock and John could finally return to Sherlock's flat. It would have taken longer; Lestrade wanted them to come back to Scotland Yard so John could give his official statement and Sherlock could help with the Moriarty investigation. Sherlock refused, saying he had already told them everything he knew about Jim Moriarty and the crime scene, and the likely state of chaos at the Yard meant giving a simple statement would undoubtedly take a few hours. He had to promise he would text Lestrade if he ever thought of anything that could help them catch Moriarty, as well as assure him they would go to the Yard early the next morning to give their statement before they were allowed to leave. Then, finally, Sherlock could finally return home with John, who obviously needed a strong cup of tea and a long nap.
John. He had been drugged, kidnapped, hanged from a ceiling, and almost shot in the heart with an unforgiving arrow. Yet, he seemed pretty calm and unruffled. Sure, he was an ex-soldier with nerves of steel, but he had answered Lestrade's questions as calmly as if the DI had been asking about his evening plans. Sherlock had seen plenty of kidnapping victims in the five years he had worked alongside Scotland Yard, but none of them had ever reacted like John. He had seen tears, anger, shock, but never that quiet patience. While Sherlock had been buzzing with the desire to go home, John had endured the endless questions without any complaints.
Upon entering Sherlock's flat, John made a beeline for the kettle, and he remained silent as he prepared two cups for Sherlock and himself. Sherlock watched him closely, wondering what to do next. Someone who, like John, had just escaped death usually longed for some sort of comfort, but nothing in his body language suggested that he needed it. For Sherlock who was unused to providing reassurance, who had never acted as a soothing presence for as long as he could remember, this should have been excellent news.
Yet, he felt the urge to be close to John, to hug him tightly as he had done in the basement, and never to let go. To comfort John or himself? That was hardly noteworthy; what was important was John's functioning lungs transporting oxygen to his bloodstream, and his strong heart pumping oxygenated blood through his veins. He wanted to feel the proofs that John was still breathing, to experience them with his own skin, but the kitchen table was stretching between them in what seemed like miles and miles of wood.
Then, unexpectedly, John's whole body went still and he put his mug on the table before running into the living room where Sherlock's laptop was lying on the sofa. Jim's macabre website was still in the state it had been in when Sherlock had left the flat earlier that day: black background without the video feed. When John hit the refresh button, an error message announcing the server couldn't be found appeared. It wasn't surprising, considering Lestrade's team had unplugged everything in 221C to bring it back to the Yard, but it was still satisfying to see part of the murder weapon in no state to cause harm. Then, John shut down the laptop completely, and Sherlock raised a puzzled eyebrow.
"He used your computer to spy on you," John explained, "I don't know exactly how he did it, but he said something about a Trojan, whatever that is."
Sherlock felt nauseated at the thought of the criminal spying on him, entering his flat without his consent, immersing himself in his life, and seeing him at his most vulnerable. Feeling his pulse drumming with anger, he grabbed his laptop from John's hands, opened the window, smashed it against the metal railing, and threw it down onto the pavement.
"Are you alright?" John asked, concerned.
Sherlock couldn't believe what he was hearing. John was asking him whether he was alright. Him! Obviously, it had been excruciating for him to watch John suspended from the ceiling while the counter constantly reduced his life expectancy. He had been almost sick with worry and fear, but it was nothing compared to what John had gone through.
"Are you?" Sherlock asked. "You got kidnapped, you almost died, and you escaped!"
"Yeah, I suppose I did," John said with a small smile as he returned to the kitchen to grab his tea.
His moves were slow and reflected his exhaustion, but his steps were strong and assured when he returned to the living room. He slumped down onto the sofa as carefully as one can do when slumping down onto a piece of furniture, and he managed to do so without spilling any tea, which was a small victory in itself. Sherlock followed, picking up his notes on the case, and sitting as close to John as possible without seeming suspicious. There were so many things that didn't make sense, so many things he didn't understand, and he still couldn't figure out why John had been involved.
"Don't think so hard, you'll break something," John said with a soft smile.
"I don't have enough data."
"Can I help?"
"I think, yes. I need you to tell me what happened. Be precise," Sherlock said.
It took John almost thirty minutes to describe what had happened to him since he had angrily stormed out of 221B Baker Street the night before. He was often interrupted, mostly by Sherlock's questions, but also by the need to yawn that was becoming increasingly strong. He told Sherlock everything he remembered, starting from the startling appearance of Jim and Sebastian, and the needle he had felt piercing his neck. Then, he told him about waking up in a place so damp it felt like downing in liquid air. He recited everything he could recall from Jim's speech, which made the blood drain out of Sherlock's face, making his already pale skin even more devoid of colour than usual.
"Of course, I wasn't surprised it had everything to do with you, the message on the website had made it very clear. But I had no idea how obsessed with you he actually was," John said.
"I had no idea either," Sherlock echoed.
It was true. While Jim's website had obviously been set up to get his attention, he had only concentrated on the puzzle and the game. Now, strangely, he felt as though he had been betrayed. He had admired the killer's intellect, had praised his genius, which had shaken his friendship with John, and he had enjoyed the chase. Knowing the killer had been nothing but a little man with an unhealthy fascination with him made his blood boil with anger.
"I should have known it was him," Sherlock said.
"How could you know? It's not like he was walking around stroking his evil beard and cackling evilly," John said, attempting to lighten the mood.
"All the signs were there, but I didn't observe. Even you noticed his fascination with me was strange and disturbing; I was fooled like an amateur."
"There are plenty of strange and disturbing people walking around. Anderson seems a little shady, doesn't mean he kills people."
"He gave me his phone number—"
"Anderson?"
"Of course not. Jim," Sherlock said as he ran to his bedroom, found the jacket he had been wearing on Monday night, and dug a hand in the pocket to find the small piece of paper with Jim's number on it.
He had forgotten all about it in the whirlwind of emotions the case had been, but now he needed to ring the number, to see whether it had been another one of Jim's taunts. When he returned to the living room, he sat beside John again, and he took out his phone. He dialled quickly and pushed the speaker button when the phone started ringing, and ringing, and ringing until the voicemail started.
You've reached the voicemail of Jim Moriarty, hi! Please leave a message, or if you want to play, you can find me at 4, Susan Close. Ciao!
"That's the address, it's where he killed his first victims," John said, turning to look at Sherlock with wide eyes.
Sherlock didn't need John telling him, he knew already. He also knew what the implications of his failure were. He gripped his phone so tightly his knuckles turned white; he couldn't believe how unobservant he had been. He had had the address in his pocket all this time, and he hadn't deduced it. He let out a pained groan and let his head fall back.
"You couldn't know, he was just a creep leaving you his phone number," John said, but Sherlock ignored him.
"Sherlock, come on. No one knew," John insisted.
"No one ever does, but I do. I always do."
"Yeah, I suppose you do. But there's nothing you can do, why don't you go to bed? You look exhausted—"
"I need to look over my case notes; if I missed this, there could be something else I missed," Sherlock said, and he picked up the pile of paper laying in front of him on the coffee table to start riffling through them.
John stayed beside him, reading at first, but soon his eyelids became too heavy to keep them open. It took thirty minutes for John to fall asleep, but Sherlock was so engrossed in reading his notes for the second time that night, he noticed it only ten minutes later, when John's head hit his shoulder.
Sherlock froze. He didn't dare move lest he woke John up, but he let his papers fall onto the floor to better concentrate on John's steady breathing tickling his neck. Maybe John was right, perhaps there was nothing he could do at the moment. He wanted to watch, to see how sleep changed John's features, so he carefully turned his head. As soon as Sherlock moved, John pressed closer until his face was buried in Sherlock's long neck. The angle was horrible, and Sherlock knew John was bound to wake up sore and aching if he slept in that position, yet he was reluctant to wake him up. John had just fallen asleep, he didn't need to wake him up now; he could still watch him for a little while, right?
Sherlock didn't plan on falling asleep; a difficult endeavour since he had hardly slept in the last couple of days, but he was stubborn. For as long as John would be sleeping, he was determined to keep watch and protect him. From what? He didn't know. From Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran, from anyone who wanted to hurt him, from Mycroft, from the whole world. Sherlock was usually repulsed by other people's weaknesses, so the desire to protect John felt foreign and strange. Possibly because John had proven that he was stronger than he seemed. Maybe because he was so capable of taking care of himself and didn't need saving, but the sight of John looking vulnerable in his sleep made Sherlock want to be so much stronger, to be better.
The deeper John's sleep became, the more he snuggled up against Sherlock who kept telling himself he would wake John soon, very soon, just another minute. It would have been easier to wake him up if he had been sleeping peacefully, but John moved a lot, and his face often twisted into a pained grimace. The worst were the small sounds escaping his lips. They sounded halfway between sobs and moans, and they went straight to Sherlock's chest, making him feel like someone heavy was sitting on him. Before waking him up, there was something Sherlock wanted to try. He ran a hand through John's hair, and the sleeping man immediately stilled before pushing his head back to meet Sherlock's hand, leaning into the touch. It wasn't long before John calmed down, and his small anguished cries were replaced by sighs of pleasure.
That finding was followed by a few experiments in which Sherlock stopped stroking John's hair to determine whether he would go back to his agitated state (he did). When no doubt remained that he was acting as a source of comfort for John, Sherlock worked out a straightforward plan that would allow the both of them to be more comfortable. Very slowly and delicately, he moved the backrest cushions to the floor, and he manoeuvred their bodies until they were lying down, with Sherlock's back against the back of the sofa and John pressed solidly against him. Sherlock's arms were trapped between his chest and John's back, but he didn't mind, their position was much better. Sherlock closed his eyes as he inhaled slowly, his nose buried deep into John's hair. As long as they were pressed tightly against each other, as long as Sherlock could feel the slow rise and fall of John's chest, it was easy to pretend John was his.
For the next hour, Sherlock busied himself by trying to catalogue every single colour in John's hair. Then, he tried to figure out whether there was a change in texture and in smell depending on where the hair was on his head. Despite his limited access, he was pleased to find out the scent behind John's ear was particularly pleasing, as was the softness of the short, pale strands. While exploring, Sherlock discovered that John hummed softly in his sleep when his neck was stroked. Following that discovery, Sherlock couldn't resist not quite accidentally brushing his fingers against the warm skin, just to hear the sounds he could elicit from John.
When the sun began to set, John started waking up, and Sherlock froze in fear that John would realise what position they were in and leave. In order not to make John uncomfortable, he started taking long, slow breaths to feign sleep. Honestly, it wasn't just for John's sake, it was also an experiment: a way to figure out how John would react to their proximity. Sherlock needed to know, so he waited. It was easy to tell the exact moment when John started being aware of his surroundings, and Sherlock closed his eyes, willing him to go back to sleep. For a few minutes, John remained still, but soon Sherlock could feel him shifting exceedingly carefully.
Surprisingly, instead of getting off the sofa, he turned around until he was facing Sherlock. It was hard not to give in to his instinct and hold his breath, especially since he could almost feel John's eyes fixed on him. When Sherlock felt John's hesitant fingers brush a dark curl out of his eye, his heart skipped a beat, yet it was nothing compared to what he experienced when John's rough thumb ran over one of his cheekbones. It was a deliberate movement, a soothing touch, and Sherlock wanted to open his eyes and put his hands on John, to kiss him, like he had rarely wanted anything else before.
Eventually, John fell asleep again, but it took a while before Sherlock could reopen his eyes. When he finally did, he found that John looked peaceful, a small smile playing on his thin lips. Sherlock didn't even try holding back his own smile; John hadn't run off. Not only was he still on the sofa, he had woken up, realised what position he was in, and hadn't minded. He had watched Sherlock sleep, and – Sherlock was dizzy just thinking about it again – he had gently stroked his cheek. It wasn't enough information to conclude that John had deeper feelings than friendship for him, but it had to mean something. There was some kind of attraction there, right? Sherlock had never felt the urge to touch someone as much as he wanted to touch John; it had to be because he was attracted to him. Was John's touch a sign that he was attracted to him too? It was hard to tell; Sherlock's interactions with others had never quite been like those of normal people, maybe it was customary for friends to caress each other's faces when they shared a sofa. He needed more data.
Sherlock honestly hadn't planned on falling asleep, but John was so warm against him and he was so tired, his body gave in to the exhaustion. He wasn't asleep for that long, but when he woke up, he and John were even closer than they had been. Their legs were entwined, and Sherlock had put an arm around John's waist in his sleep. John was so close Sherlock couldn't even tell whether he was awake or not. The room was very dark; it had to be later than ten.
"Hello," John said, the word slightly muffled by Sherlock's chest. Well, that answered one question.
"Hello," Sherlock answered, "did you sleep well?"
"I did, actually. But why am I not in bed?" he asked, and Sherlock was pleased to notice that John didn't seem appalled by the fact that he was sleeping on the sofa with his future brother-in-law, merely curious.
"You fell asleep on me, and I didn't want to wake you up," Sherlock explained.
"Oh. Sorry. I hope I didn't drool on your shirt."
"I don't mind if you did," Sherlock replied, and it was true, he really didn't mind.
Perhaps, if there were traces of John's DNA on his shirt, he could build a new John for himself. Although he didn't want a new John, he wanted this John. Maybe Mycroft could have the new John? Sherlock stopped that train of thought very quickly. It was idiotic and unrealistic; if he did manage to clone John, he would be an infant, and what good was that to anyone.
"I'm starving," John said after a moment, apparently unaware that Sherlock still had an arm around him, or if he knew, he didn't seem to care.
"There's the pie you made on Monday," Sherlock replied, "I put it in the fridge so it wouldn't spoil."
"Are you eating today?" John asked, concern seeping through his casual tone.
"The case is not closed."
"You told Lestrade that Moriarty wouldn't be found unless he wanted to be. What if he doesn't want to be found for the next year? You can't stop eating! I won't let you!"
"Oh, alright. I'll have pie," Sherlock said in his best imitation of irritation, but the truth was he found John fussing over him quite endearing. John cared; he didn't want Sherlock to starve himself. Also, John was still on the sofa, and he didn't look uncomfortable at all. However, the need for pie meant they had to disentangle their legs, get off their small metaphorical island, and transfer to the kitchen.
John hadn't even been in 221B Baker Street for a week, but they already had a kitchen routine. Sherlock's place was on a chair, while John busied himself with putting the pie in the oven and finding forks. He was about to start looking for clean plates, but Sherlock suggested they ate directly off the pie dish, and John didn't object. Instead, he started making tea: delicious tea with milk in it. It was a rare situation to have milk in the flat; Sherlock only occasionally bought some, he usually relied on Mrs Hudson bringing him a carton once in a while. Even then, he seldom drank it. It either went bad, or was used in various experiments. Or both.
When the pie was hot enough, John placed it on the kitchen table between them, and he handed Sherlock a fork. They didn't bother with cutting pieces; instead, they started in the middle and worked their way out to the crust. The pie was at that perfect temperature between warm and hot, the apples were tender, and there was just the right amount of cinnamon. Sherlock closed his eyes when he took the first mouthful, enjoying the delicate blend of flavours and the moist texture. When he reopened his eyes, John was grinning at him from across the table.
"What?" Sherlock asked, and John's smile turned into a soft laugh.
"For someone who refuses to eat while on a case, you really seem to enjoy it," he answered.
"Food is a distraction, and I work better when I'm not distracted," Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.
For the next minute, neither spoke as they concentrated on the pie. Yet, Sherlock never ceased to observe John from the corner of an eye. He seemed uneasy, troubled. Sherlock was considering asking what the problem was, but John spoke before he had the time to.
"Was I a distraction?"
Yes, I couldn't stop thinking about you, Sherlock thought, but that wasn't something he was supposed to say, he wasn't ready to have this conversation. Instead, he settled for something safer, something that would erase the concerned frown lines from John's face.
"You were invaluable. Without that thing you did, Moriarty's associate would still be free, and there would probably be another person being tortured on that twisted website of theirs."
"I wish I had noticed the second victim was blinking Morse code sooner, maybe then he'd still be alive," John said regretfully.
"Don't beat yourself up. It all comes back to what I was saying yesterday," Sherlock said, the bitter memory of John leaving in anger still fresh on his mind, "people die, and it would be impossible to do my job if I dwelled on every victim."
Sherlock ate another mouthful of pie while John shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"About last night," John said, "I'm sorry I called you heartless. You're not. I never thought you were. I don't know why I said it."
"It's…easier if I don't let myself care," Sherlock tried to explain. "It was different when it was you; I lacked detachment, I couldn't think, and I was utterly useless."
"You found me, though," John said, trying to hide with his hand the fact that his mouth was full of pie.
"I did. Yet, I didn't feel the thrill I usually get when I solve a puzzle."
"Oh, alright," was John's only answer, and silence fell over them.
In his quiet kitchen that was almost completely dark, the only source of light coming from the single turned on lamp in the living room, Sherlock had never been so tempted to ask about John's reasons for marrying Mycroft. Yet he refrained, because as long as they didn't talk about it, it was surprisingly easy to ignore the upcoming engagement. He still wanted to know, he needed to know, but he still had time; he had two whole days left.
They were halfway done with the pie by then, but they kept eating. John seemed ravenous, and now that Sherlock had started eating, he couldn't stop. He could almost feel his stomach purring with pleasure as he fed it mouthful after mouthful of delicious dessert. John was silent for a while, and they continued to eat, exchanging smiles across the table when their eyes met. It was John who finally broke the silence with a question.
"Was Moriarty right about you not having friends?"
"After uni, I never bothered making any. It seemed like a lot of work."
"I consider you a friend."
"So do I," Sherlock replied, and they smiled at each other before turning their attention back to the pie.
"Moriarty thought it would have destroyed you if I had been killed," John said after a while.
It took much self-control for Sherlock not to choke on his mouthful. It was unnerving to know there was a person out there who knew so much about him, despite having met him only a couple of times. He thought about his smashed laptop on the pavement, and he felt a surge of anger crashing through him at the thought of his violated privacy. As a way of responding to John's last comment, he made a noncommittal humming sound.
The pie dish was now empty, save for some crust crumbs that Sherlock chased with his index finger before bringing it to his mouth to suck on the crumbs stuck to it. He felt deliciously full, and he longed for a few hours of sleep, but it was out of the question as long as John was sitting with him in the kitchen. As if on cue, John tried to hide a yawn behind his hand.
"You're tired. Don't let me keep you up."
"Yeah, I think I'll go to bed. Thank you, for everything," John said, and he got up to rinse their mugs and the pie dish before going up to his temporary bedroom.
Soon after, Sherlock retreated to his own bedroom, changed into his pyjama, and slid under the covers. His duvet was still in the living room, but his room wasn't that cold, and he felt too lazy to move. It wasn't long before he fell asleep, dreaming of John's body pressed against his. In his dream, Sherlock was bolder than he had dared to be; he kissed John when he felt his thumb stroking his cheek. When he became aware that he was dreaming, he fought as hard as he could to remain asleep, but it was a lost battle, and he felt the dream slipping away as consciousness crept in.
"Sherlock?"
He was startled when he heard his name, and he sat up in his bed, trying to locate the source of the sound. The room was still dark, but he could distinguish John's deformed silhouette in the doorway. Wait, deformed? Sherlock blinked several times until his eyes got accustomed to the darkness, and he saw what gave John's silhouette a strange and fluffy shape: he had his arms full of Sherlock's duvet.
"John? Is there anything wrong?" Sherlock asked.
"I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I hear Jim whispering in my ear, and I just…can't. To know he was so close, it creeps me out."
"Do you need anything?" Sherlock asked, because there had to be a reason for John to be standing so awkwardly in his doorway.
"Could I… I mean, erm, I was sleeping earlier and, well, it was fine. I was wondering if maybe, ah, if you don't mind—"
Sherlock frowned while he attempted to decipher what John was trying to say. The last time he had heard him sound so embarrassed, John had been about to ask whether he could stay in London longer. So, John was probably trying to ask for something he wanted, but he feared rejection. Given the circumstances, there weren't many possible things it could be. He recalled John's troubled sleep and his small cries that had ceased as soon as Sherlock had started stroking his hair.
"My bed is big enough for the two of us, come here," Sherlock said, and John took a few hesitant steps into the bedroom.
"I brought your duvet," John said, and he extended his arms towards the bed, as if offering a duvet was the price to pay to gain access to Sherlock's bed. He looked so small and vulnerable that the possessive animal that lived deep in Sherlock's stomach twisted and turned with longing.
"Come on, then," Sherlock said, and John climbed onto the bed, pushed several books out of the way, and slid under the covers. They both tugged at the duvet until it covered their two bodies, and they lay side by side facing each other.
Sherlock closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, but it was difficult when all he could hear was a loud chorus of Handel's Messiah playing repeatedly in his head. It was hard to tell how long they stayed silent, but eventually John sighed and Sherlock opened his eyes.
"It's not working," John said.
It wasn't surprising; the conditions were very different from what they had been on the sofa. Maybe what was missing was the tall body of one particular consulting detective wrapped around John. In order to replicate the sofa conditions, Sherlock shifted closer until he could wrap an arm around John's waist, and he held him tightly against him. Then, he slid one of his long legs over John's, and he rested his chin on the top of the smaller man's head.
"I'm so sorry Sherlock, if it's weird for you—"
"Shh," Sherlock cut him off, "you're okay, try to sleep."
He felt John's body relax, and very soon he was peacefully asleep, protected by the improvised cocoon formed by Sherlock's body. It was better than making a particularly surprising deduction, it was better than a murder, and better than sharing a pie. Just knowing that he had brought some comfort to John made him feel powerful and so, so good. The last thing he registered before he too fell asleep was John's hand on his hip, a little over the waistband of his pyjama bottoms.