John clutches Sarah's hand and they don't talk.
The cab ride home is too long. Isn't long enough.
John wonders if it's possible to be felled by too many emotions. Could a heart actually stop, just give up, because it doesn't know what to do with the shocking number and variety of feelings that grip it, stream through it?
He wants more than anything to believe what Sarah has told him. That Sherlock came to her, told her the truth, invited her into their lives. He can't bring himself to get angry about the way it came about. It's not like he's had any expectation of privacy with Sherlock anyway. Not in a long, long time.
The cab stops, and John's not ready. His hand squeezes hers and she brings her other hand to rest on top of his.
They pay and make it to the front door, and John halts, dropping his head as nervous giggles bubble up in his throat. How is this my life, how is this real . . .
He manages the door, and as they step inside he hears the violin going in screechy stops and starts, sounds that mean Sherlock is improvising, and it isn't going well.
"See," Sarah says from beside him. "You're not the only one who's nervous."
And John looks back at her and thinks this might just work out.
He makes it up the stairs by forcing himself not to think. It works and it doesn't - the thoughts still flit through him, but he propels himself to the door of the flat. Sarah is a pace behind him. John waits until she is even with him to open the door.
Sherlock has his back to them, facing the long window left of their desks. The tortured, half-composed melody stutters but continues.
John watches for a moment, Sherlock's fingers dancing along the neck, his arm dipping and rising as he bows. It occurs to him that Sherlock may not be able to stop; for all his efforts to bring things to a head, Sherlock appears as unsure as John has ever seen him, the violin filling in as some sort of compass in these uncharted waters, and not very well, at that.
They need to talk.
So John begins by not talking at all. He steps over to his friend, close enough that Sherlock can surely feel him there, only inches away. John waits, and in a moment Sherlock is leaning just that much closer. John smiles, and slides his right arm around Sherlock from behind, his hand coming to rest at Sherlock's belly. Sherlock continues playing, the notes disorganized and too soft, and John feels Sherlock's sharp intake of breath, the muscles undulating under his hand.
So nervous.
John shakes his head. How could he doubt? How could he think John would be anything but grateful?
He presses his face into the valley between Sherlock's shoulder blades, his five o'clock shadow catching on the silky fabric of Sherlock's dressing gown as he nuzzles there, as he tightens his arm around Sherlock's waist.
Sherlock lowers the violin. He collects the bow in the same hand as the instrument, his right hand now free to curl around John's, to line up their forearms and press them together.
John smiles against Sherlock's back, and when he reaches out with his left hand, Sarah's fingers find him instantly, slipping to intertwine with his.
Though he still feels surreal, like he's navigating an alien sea, he also feels better. He clears his throat and lifts his head from between Sherlock's shoulders.
His voice sounds soft in his own ears. "All right. Good," he says with a sharp nod.
They end up sitting around the mostly cleared off desk in the sitting room. Sherlock's fingers drum along the smooth wood of the desk. Sarah crosses and uncrosses her arms. John feels like he should say something, as if he's somehow the leader here and though thoughts bubble up, he can't seem to speak them; they burst at the surface, won't hold their shape.
Surprisingly, Sherlock speaks first. What he says is less surprising.
"What exactly is the point of this conversation we're not having?"
"Sherlock."
"I've been utterly clear on my . . . feelings-," a shudder runs over his face as he says the word, "-and unless we're to discuss the logistics of our arrangement, I fail to see the point of this . . ." He waves a hand at the air between them.
John frowns, but Sarah says, "All right. Let's discuss logistics, then." He could kiss her (again) for speaking up, is grateful to both of them for starting without him, as he is still trying to parse the knowledge that they both care enough about him to try to make this work.
"Fine. Are you planning on living here?" Sherlock asks, his cool blue eyes narrowing in on Sarah.
"I think we're a ways off from that," Sarah answers.
"Are you going to sleep here?" Sherlock continues.
Sarah glances at John. "That's entirely possible."
Probable, John thinks. Very likely. He finds himself nodding a little at them both.
Sherlock looks ready to continue his interrogation, and John has a hand half-raised to stop him when Sarah jumps in.
"How often do you . . . co-sleep?"
John feels a irrepressible urge to clear his throat, and coughs inelegantly, but neither Sarah nor Sherlock seem to notice. Sherlock answers without pausing.
"On average, three nights a week, but it's entirely dependent on circumstances; there is no schedule or predictable pattern as of yet."
"And where?"
"Either bedroom. As I said, there is no pattern."
"Ah. Well. What happens if I'm here, then?"
Sherlock narrows his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"What if John and I go upstairs and have sex in that lovely big bed of his, fall asleep together, and yet circumstances exist such that you want to co-sleep with him that evening?"
Sherlock draws his brows together, but John knows he's more irritated with himself than with Sarah's bluntness. He's kicking himself for not having thought everything through before bringing Sarah into it.
John clears his throat intentionally this time. "Look," he begins. "I think that, erm. I think that we're all going to have to play . . . this . . . by ear." He gives Sarah a reassuring smile, but the shape of her lips shows she is not satisfied with his answer. He looks over to Sherlock; crystal blue eyes dart to his. Dart away.
Right.
John swallows his own insecurities and reminds himself that of the three of them, he's the one receiving all the promises, all the words and actions of love. He fills his voice with calm.
"We've only got one sticking point here, really. And it's nothing to do with me. Somehow, in all of this, I've got the both of you . . . declaring your feelings for me. And I-ah. I feel like the luckiest man in England right about now. But this little triad or whatever we're calling it won't work unless you two figure out how to be around each other." And John feels his belly tightening, because that's it, isn't it? That's the crux of the whole thing, the missing line to connect the three endpoints.
Sherlock looks very much like he would like to walk over to the nearest window and jump out of it.
Sarah's a little less dismayed, but only just.
John focuses on Sherlock, nearly pulling him back into the conversation with his gaze, trying to put his reassurance, his gratitude into his eyes. John reaches out, sliding his hand over Sherlock's, easily slipping his fingers around Sherlock's. He feels an answering squeeze, feels the tightening of slender fingers around his own.
Sherlock takes a fortifying breath and turns to Sarah.
"Fine. I think you're somewhat intelligent, often resourceful, braver than you let on, and John loves you so I'm willing to . . . accept your presence in our lives."
It's more than John expected, and he looks over to Sarah, whose one raised eyebrow reflects her own surprise. John reaches out to her instinctively, hope threading through him as he threads his fingers between hers.
Her fingers hold his, skin warm against skin, and he marvels at it for a moment, feeling each of them in his hands.
Sarah nods once. "All right." She waits until Sherlock is looking at her, and continues. "Well. I think you're amazing, and difficult, and I think you wanted to say 'tolerate' instead of 'accept', but you amended it because you love John and you want this to work."
John feels a flutter in Sherlock's fingers, sees him tilt his head just the slightest bit to the left, a gesture John knows means more than just the concession it suggests; it means respect. John tightens his hold on Sherlock's hand, telegraphing gratitude through his fingertips.
"And that makes me optimistic," she finishes, her fingers tightening around John's.
Her smile is small, but genuine, and aimed at Sherlock; John feels the tension spill out of him, displaced by the resonating wave of hope that flows between them.
x-x-x
Notes: Armada gets smooches for beta brilliance.