/* A/N: First of all, any other Doctor Who fans out there want Martin Freeman to play the next Doctor?! :D
I tried my best to make this realistic. I don't think Sherlock would just jump somebody's bones. It's going to be a confusing process. I'd really like this to have the feel of a realistic story if possible. I try to write the characters as close to the show as possible. Please tell me if there is any way I can improve on this! /*
Doctor John Watson blinked the sleep out of his eyes and propped himself up on an elbow to read the alarm clock. 9:42 AM. Sherlock's room was exactly as John had left it. With a sinking feeling, John realized that Sherlock could just as well have been a dream for the evidence he had left in the room. The bed was smooth, with the sheets wrapped around John in a mess the way they usually were at the end of a long night.
It was still raining.
John rested his head on his elbows with his face down and thought through every detail of the night. The tea, the punch, the...kiss. The pub. The food!
He spun around so fast he almost knocked over the bedside table. There, on the nightstand, like a miracle, was the plastic bag from the pub. He grabbed it and ripped open the styrofoam, taking a hungry man's bite out of the burger inside.
It felt as if he hadn't eaten in days- weeks even. By the time he started on the chips, Sherlock was on the threshold of the door with two mugs.
John looked up, mouth full. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, mouth slightly agape.
"Enjoying your peace offering, are you?" he asked.
John swallowed.
"It was OK," John said, grinning.
"Sarcasm," Sherlock remarked. "Hmm. Too early in the morning, if you ask me. Here."
He thrust the mug into John's hands. Coffee.
"It's part two. Of the peace offering, I mean."
John knit his eyebrows together, remembering the last time Sherlock made him coffee.
"Not trying to poison me, are you?" John asked, only half joking.
"Only to have your average mind in peak physical condition for the day ahead," Sherlock responded, striding back into the sitting room.
John clambered after him, untying himself from the sheets as he went.
"Sherlock," he called, "we need to talk about-"
"Now is not the best time," Sherlock said, inclining his head toward the chair by the fireplace.
There was a nervous looking man running his fingers over a bowler hat, tapping his feet as Sherlock talked.
"So, you were saying before that you witnessed a murder?"
"Y-yes," the man answered.
"And that this murder...was committed by your six month old beagle?"
"That's right, Mr. Holmes, sir."
"And the individual murdered was...?"
"My late mum-in-law, yeah."
"Okay then, Mr...ah, whatever. We have no interest in you."
"What?"
"Out!" Sherlock shooed the man out lazily with one hand. The other was pressed firmly into his right temple.
The man scrambled out of the chair and quickly through the door, replacing his hat as he went.
"That's the third one this morning who seemed more interesting on the internet. Funny, how that happens? The internet is deceptive, John."
John shrugged absentmindedly and went to pour another mug of coffee. Admittedly, it was good. No milk, no sugar. Just how he liked it.
"I don't mean to interrupt your thought process on our new client, but we need to have a chat about last night."
Sherlock was leaning into his chair, both temples covered now.
"Not now, John."
"See, but, the thing is," John continued, sitting on Sherlock's footrest. "You've just come back from the dead, and last night you...well, you can't just expect me to act like nothing happened."
Sherlock looked up from his hands and bore into John with scrutiny. John inched back a bit, not knowing quite what to make of the intensity, waiting to see if it was better to leave Sherlock alone for the day.
"You're thinking you should probably leave me alone," Sherlock said.
John blinked.
Sherlock rose abruptly and began to pace back and forth between the door and the window.
"Only, I have been alone," he continued. "I was alone my whole life- well practically all of it- before you came along. And it's not just that. I liked it. I liked being alone. No one to fuss about the mess, complain about the violin, no one to hear me talk to myself. And then you were all in danger, so I left. I solved the problem by removing myself from the equation."
"Sherlock-"
"Things were the way they used to be. Not giving a care, just me and strangers, alone in the world again. Only, I hated it, John. It was terrible, being away from here."
Sherlock paused to stare at John again, as if he was looking at the other man for the first time. Beginning to pace again, he continued.
"I spent a lot of time thinking about it, you know. Why I was so miserable. I was away from the casework, yes, but there was plenty to explore wherever I went. I even did some anonymous work with the French government. I thought about Mrs. Hudson, and 221B, and you. I imagined having each one with me in turn, and there was only one factor that would have changed anything."
John looked at him blankly.
"I needed you," he said, frustratedly. "God John, you're so...so dense."
"All right, well, let's go back to the part where you said you needed me and stop there," John said, folding his arms.
"I'm not done," Sherlock said, returning to his seat. "There's something more."
"Okay," John said. "What?"
"It's complicated," Sherlock whined.
"Is it to do with logical reasoning?" John asked.
"No..."
"Some sort of convoluted lab experiment?"
"Not quite."
"Any sort of math at all, whatsoever?"
"No."
"Then I think you will find I am completely capable of understanding, Sherlock."
"It's feelings, John. How I didn't want to live without you. That's what feelings are, right?"
John shook his head in amusement.
"Sure, that's what feelings are."
"How...how I sort of...wanted to touch you. When I got home. That was a feeling."
"Right."
Sherlock sighed in frustration, throwing his hands up.
"What do I do with them, though?"
John looked at him blankly.
"You've never wanted to, I don't know, hug someone before?"
"John. Do I seem like a hugger to you?"
"You have a point," John admitted, unfolding his arms and resting his hands on his knees.
"I've never not known what was happening. Never like this. It...it's rubbish."
John grinned. "Now you know how I feel."
Sherlock let the corner of his lips curl into a smile.
"I didn't think about it like that."
"Clearly."
John stood up.
"Get up," he said.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, but did as the other man said.
"Here."
John lifted Sherlock's arms with his and slipped under them, wrapping his arms around the detective's back. Sherlock's arms hung limply at his sides.
"What are you doing?" Sherlocked asked accusingly. "What's going on?"
"It's a hug, Sherlock."
"What am I supposed to do?"
"Erm. Put your arms around me. Then, ah, I don't know. Rest your head on my shoulder."
It wasn't as awkward as John had imagined it would be.
"This is weird," Sherlock whispered into the crook of John's neck.
"This is what normal people do."
"I kind of like it," Sherlock admitted, wrapping his arms more tightly around John's shoulders. "It's warm."
"Yeah."
John rested his head on Sherlock's chest and listened to his heart beat. It seemed almost ludicrous that Sherlock would have a heartbeat like a normal person. That blood pulsed in his veins, dictating whether he was alive or dead. That perhaps one day he would die. And suddenly, in his arms, listening to his heartbeat, John was flooded with relief.
After a few moments, Sherlocked pulled back.
"John?"
"Yeah."
"Sorry...sorry if I crossed the line last night."
"What?" John was not expecting an apology. "Why?"
"It's just, I know you like women, I'm sure it must have been...unpleasant, me forcing myself on you like that-"
John leaned up and took both of Sherlock's cheeks in his hands.
"Shut up, Sherlock."
And with that, he planted a kiss firmly on Sherlock's lips.
Pulling away, he was unusually satisfied at the look of shock on Sherlock's face.
"Come on, we've a case to get to," John said, grabbing his coat from the stand. "It's not going to find itself."
"Right," Sherlock said, and, for once, he was following John.