Alright guys, this is the end. I promise this isn't the only Sherlock fic I'll be writing, much more to come from this one. I love the pairing far to much to limit them to one short fluffy fic. All your reviews have meant so much to me and that's what keep me writing. And on we go.
BONUS CHAPTER -John
It's been two weeks since Sherlock's been released from the hospital and for the most part he's pretty much healed. John had persuaded him (and that's phrasing it very very nicely seeing as he had practically barricaded the door one night) the detective had stayed in the flat for the most part, waiting to fully recover. For the past few nights though it's seeming that the man had held a grudge at the doctor for keeping him in longer than necessary. ("Honestly John I'm fine. You worrying about me like a cagey housewife isn't doing me any good."
"Sherlock, it still hurts you to stand I'm not letting you take any strenuous cases! And that's it! Besides I've talked to Greg and he's not filling you in on anything either so let it go and for once in your life try to relax!")
The tall man has been sleeping on the couch, leaving John to toss and turn in a bed that feels far too large without the annoying git in it. And when he arrives home from the hospital that evening that's where he finds him, stretched out on the couch one arm dangling off the side and the other half wrapped around Science that has curled up on the man's chest. John represses a laugh, unwilling to wake the man and after removing his coat and shoes creeps closer to snap a picture on his phone.
"John?" The voice is groggy, still half asleep.
"Didn't mean to wake you." He's moved to the kitchen having decided to make himself something to eat but after seeing the human hand sitting in the bottom of the refrigerator he's decided that perhaps he's not that hungry after all.
"You're late." John glances at his watch and notices that he is, in fact, late. By a half hour.
"Hadn't noticed. We were a bit busy today." Sherlock is quiet but John doesn't move. After a moment he brings himself to ask the question that's been at the forefront of his mind.
"Why... Why have you been sleeping in here?" The detective's eyes flash open and John almost has a hard time believing the man was ever asleep. His stare is a bit overwhelming (as it always is) and the doctor can feel himself being read like a book.
"You miss sharing a bed with me." Fighting the blood that seems to shoot into his face he acts as if Sherlock never spoke.
"I mean, you've been sleeping on this couch for three days now. It honestly doesn't look that comfortable."
"It's not." Sherlock gently picks up Science and sets her on the couch as he sits up. John still has a hard time believing how the man has taken to the cat. He's caught the detective explaining things to the creature as he worked. There is a silence that follows. John's question still sits unanswered and he refuses to ask it again. He knows the taller man is keeping him waiting for a reason and for now, he'll play along.
Their eyes meet and the silence in the room seems to intensify. What have I done wrong? Is the real unanswered question and he knows Sherlock knows that. What can I do to bring you back to me? It seems that this one time, the detective looks away first.
"John please understand that I'm not used to people... looking after me the way you do. Mycroft has his way about it but honestly if the fat lout didn't talk to me ever again I'd be marginally happier in this life. I can solve the simplest of crimes in mere minutes. I can chase after a car in the pouring rain. I can go without sleep or food for days on end and feel none the worse about any of it. But you John. You change everything. You're the one thing that can confuse me. Your emotions, your words. Everything about you that in anyway involves me. For the first time in an exceptionally long time, if ever, I really don't know how to handle things.
I understand I am less than what most would define as human but you make me feel things that fall into that category. I thought I was above love. That petty, selfish, jealous emotion derived by chemicals in the brain. I, logically speaking, understand it. I should be above it. But I'm not. Not with you. And that's where I stand on this moment. That's why I've been sleeping on the couch."
There is silence after Sherlock's soliloquy. And though, in no way does John understand why the detective is sleeping on the couch, he's learned a great deal more than he was expecting when he asked the question.
"Sherlock. Are you... Are you trying to tell me you love me?" The pause after that sentence is heavy. And only grows more so as it extends on and on far past the point of comfortable. John is fidgeting as he waits for the other man's reply.
Science has sat up on the other end of the couch and it seems she too is waiting for a reply from the detective.
"Perhaps." Sherlock rakes a hand through his hair before meeting the doctor's eyes again. Eyes that feel impossibly wide after just one word. "I'm not familiar enough with the feeling to tell you certainly that it's love but I'm inclined to believe that would be the proper phrasing of it yes." The sentence is spoken so calmly because to the detective it is one of simple fact. To John, it's a sentence that has changed the entire world.
A cinematic-like flashback seems to come over him as he remembers every time someone, be it Mrs. Hudson or anyone, had thought he and Sherlock were a couple. How he had denied the rumors and tried to end them with a simple, 'I'm not gay.' Which was true, for the most part anyone. John had never looked at another man the way he looked at Sherlock Holmes. Hell, to be honest, he had never looked at another woman the way he looked at Sherlock bloody Holmes. Through all his years, his tour in the military, he had never laid eyes on anyone, or anything, as beautiful and as terrifying as the man sitting before him now. The man that had brought him peace within his life. The man that made that life worth living when in the past he had questioned that very notion.
And now that man sat before him telling him, in not so many words, that he loved him. And that's when the first smile appears. A simple that is followed by laughter. The detective looks startled at the outburst from the doctor.
"I seem to have missed a joke." John shakes his head no, still shaking with laughter.
"Sherlock you idiot." He stands up from his seat and walks over to kneel in front of the other man and takes his hands, pleased when the detective doesn't pull away. "Yes. Sherlock. That's love. I guess you found your human side after all. And with just a second of hesitation, the doctor breaks the distance between them and finally introduces his lips to Sherlock's.
It's a quick kiss, John knowing all too well that Sherlock might very well pull away from him and when their eyes meet afterwards he's pleased to see a spark of amusement in the taller man's eyes.
"That wasn't awful." John laughs not minding in the least the awkward phrasing of the other man's words.
"Well at least that's a good thing." Science moves over towards them and nudges her head against their entwined hands, purring softly. "And for the record, I might as well tell you that I love you as well, though you've probably already deduced that." Sherlock's eyes soften.
"Whether I had or hadn't there is a certain quality to hearing you say it." John smiles and stands, softly ruffling the detective's hair, ignoring the way the other man smacks at his hand.
"I hope this means you'll actually be sleeping in bed tonight instead of this damned couch." The detective simply smiles in return.
-One Week Later
That tall git. If he thought he could parade him around London in the rain on a wild goose chase for some scarf he had officially lost his mind.
"Sherlock it's pouring, we'll catch cold."
"Nonsense." The detective shouted back at him.
"Sherlock I swear I'm going back to the flat." This stopped the tall man in front of him, who turned to stare inquisitively at him. "No, no. Don't you give me that look. It's freezing and it's raining and has been for two days. Do you honestly think anyone would be out in this, serial killer or otherwise?"
"Well if I needed to hide a weapon, well of course I'd think of a much better place but that's beside the point, I would hide it in this weather because no one would want to go out in it to search." He resisted rolling his eyes at the man.
"Yes. That's the point. You. No one else would do that. They'd probably double bag it and leave it in their garage until they had a clear night to bury it on or toss it in the sodding garbage! Honestly Sherlock." The detective stared at him for a minute.
"John, besides the obvious tired, wet, and cold going on here, something else is bothering you. What is it?" John tried to keep his face expressionless despite knowing it would most likely fail.
"Ah, I see. Well you head on back to the flat John. I'll return eventually, do me a favor and put a kettle on would you?" And with that he was running again.
"Wait! You idiot wait! What do you see?" Sherlock stopped for just a minute to yell back.
"Everything." And he was off. John curses under his breath for a minute before taking off after the man. And after about a half a mile when he's caught up to the detective, standing still on the corner beneath a light post he asks again.
"Seriously, when you said everything, what did you mean?" The man in question is staring up at the sky, oblivious to the rain pouring down around them.
"Everything John. You and me and this," he gestures widely with both arms. "The serial killers and the kidnappers and the flat and Science. The past, the present, the future and us. Always us." John is silent, arms wrapped around his torso in a vain attempt to keep warm. "There's you and me and there's the world John. We are not part of that world. But we intervene to fix problems, to solve to reason and to justify. We are on our own and we are alone but we are together." John holds his tongue again, this being the first thing Sherlock's said about their kinda-maybe-romance since the kiss a week ago.
"Understand John it used to be me and the world. I was alone. And I was content. I took cases and solved them. I did my experiments and my equations. Everything made sense. But I'm not alone anymore. You were alone as well but you found me and you shot the cabbie and everything has fallen into place since then. Now it's us. And when I look at you and say everything I mean that I see that you're determined to stay with me but you need me to prove to you that I understand what I say when I use the term love. I didn't once. But believe me when I say I do now. Only by watching you show it to me in everything you do could I recognize it within myself. You and me and the Work. John that IS everything." Sherlock smiles once, and begins to run once more.
John has never been one to run. He prefers to walk, to take his time and sort things out. Running is impulse decisions and while he has quite the track record with them, when things get complicated he will always walk. But as his feet begin to move without any real command on his part he realizes all too well how Sherlock is the exception. Sherlock is the man that makes him run, the man he will run for. The man that makes running feel almost like flying.
I literally cried at the end of this because I'm a loser and this is the first fanfic I've ever finished and I didn't want it to be over. But it's done and I'm really happy with it. Keep an eye out because the next fic may come sooner than you think.
With love, Kassie