Alright, stopped drinking Monster before I write, took a nap earlier (RARE), and last night I got a full eight hours of sleep (thanks Silverstar-to-Ennien) and I've calmed down considerably. Just...ugh. Anyway, thanks if you've stuck around so far. This is not my best piece of writing, but I have a full-plot for the final conflict with Moriarty (it's actually pretty clever in my opinion). It should take up three chapters (there will be at least ten in all, half-way there!) The rest will pretty much be exploring Sherlock and John's relationship (kinda fillers, but kinda not) - so the next two-ish. Well, I realise I "talk" a lot at the beginning of these things, just thanks for hanging around and reading. And putting up with my insanity and overall freakish-ness. Also for putting up with my procrastination. The last few nights I swore I would get up and type, but I fell asleep instead... (cough, cough) oops. Also, the weekend was a bitch. So sorry I haven't posted in a week...
Disclaimer: I couldn't resist. Sherlock is not mine (even if I wish it/he was).
Note: Enjoy, and review if you find the time. If not, that's alright. Ah, and due to actually thinking this out and sleep, this chapter may actually be decent and longer than usual. If not slightly cracky at Sherlock's emotions. Forgive Sherlock's emotions... Also, the Johnlock actually begins here. No. REGRETS. None. Sorry if this isn't your bag, though.
"That was tedious," Sherlock grumbles as John opens the door to 221B Baker Street. Immediately the taller man glides up the seventeen steps into the flat, and by the time John makes it behind him the detective is sprawled in his chair, left leg hanging down over one arm of it, the other leg curled under him. He's still in his long coat, but the scarf has been removed from his neck (don't stare, Watson, damn you) and he's wringing it gently through his hands.
John smirks. Tedious. That seemed to be his friend's favorite word as of late. Everything was either tedious, dull, or wasn't worth his time. "Was it now, Sherlock? Because I believe you were smiling the whole time, positively chuffed in fact," the doctor replies cheekily, and when he does Sherlock's mouth turns into a positively perfect replica of his older brother's frown. John almost - almost - mentions the resemblance, feeling it on the tip of his tongue, but Sherlock (being the brilliant man that he is) anticipates what he's going to say and cuts him off with an ice-cold glare that practically screams, I am nothing like my brother. Instead the doctor turns and hangs his jacket on the hook, and Sherlock decides to take this moment to verbally respond.
"That was before those morons at the Yard ruined it all," Sherlock mumbles, more to himself than to John, who overhears and knows by the added venom in the younger man's voice that he's talking about Anderson.
John manages to turn back around at the precise moment his friend decides to look at him, the green (today) eyes flicking away in an instant to look at something on the floor, his brow furrowed in concentration as the sandy-haired man tilts his head to the right, a frown quirking the corners of his mouth. Something wasn't right. Sherlock didn't act like this.
He tries to attract the taller man's attention, to no avail. Sherlock never looks away from that spot on the floor, deep in thought about something. John would almost say that his friend's eyes look sad, maybe even worried, or (God forbid) scared. Sherlock feels the other man studying him and grimaces at the thought of his expression, swapping it out for a more emotionless mask (resembling Mycroft further). His gaze moves slowly to John's beige (boring!) jumper and he's nearly surprised to see the doctor still standing there, hands on his hips expectantly.
"Everything alright Sherlock?" he asks when their eyes finally meet.
The detective lies easily, eyes guarded. "Of course, John. Why would you think otherwise?"
John feels his brow raise and Sherlock watches the action closely. He doesn't want to say anything, won't allow himself to say anything because it's stupid, and means nothing, and since when has he cared about what other people think or say? But another look from the doctor, a little softer this time, has him spouting out what's bothering him - even though he's trying (and failing) to convince himself it's not.
"Anderson told me that eventually I'm going to get under your skin and you're going to leave because everyone else already dislikes me to the point that they dread my presence, no matter the context. He said that I'm willing to do anything for the case, even risk you, and eventually you won't be able to take that and you'll leave," he murmurs, as if it's the most unimportant thing in the world, well aware of John's incredulous expression. Sherlock doesn't bring up the part where Anderson also mentioned that one day John would be lying dead in some alley and it would be the freak's own carelessness that put him there.
The doctor blinks a few times at the blunt way Sherlock says this, then feels his ears turn red. "How did that come up?"
"Apparently I was being bothersome," the consulting detective dead-pans.
John nods calmly but inside he's boiling. He knows Anderson knew he was hitting Sherlock right where it hurt, just to see him crumble a bit. He may try to hide it, may try to ignore it and say repeatedly he doesn't have a heart, but the shorter man knows somewhere in there that Sherlock really does care about him. He's seen it, on rare occasions, felt it, has been told the same by Mycroft. Hell, Sherlock himself had told him that he was his only friend.
Sighing, he takes a step closer to Sherlock's chair, face grim. "You don't honestly believe that, do you?" he whispers, tone dangerously calm. It's almost a threat.
Looking away was the worst possible thing Sherlock could have done.
In an instant, John is in his face, fist clenched on the lapels of his coat. The detective is startled at first, unable to do anything but look into those dark eyes and wait. The shorter man's teeth are bared and for a moment he relishes the fact that he has to bend down for once to be face to face with his (infuriating) friend.
"You honestly think I'd leave you Sherlock? After everything we've been through together? I'm glad your opinion of me is so high." John wrinkles his nose derisively at the cruel sarcasm, sure that he shouldn't be enjoying the other man's slightly anguished expression.
"What? Has the Great Sherlock Holmes forgotten how to speak?"
Sherlock - who has always had trouble with emotions, never really understood them, who always found opening up to anyone painfully difficult - snaps. For no real reason at all besides the fact that the one man whom he feels any real attachment to is mocking him, two inches away from his nose.
"You know damn well I haven't John! It's just- I-" he breaks off for a moment, waiting patiently for some of John's anger and frustration to fade away, lost in the quiet closeness. "I don't have many people I find tolerable, less I find likable, and only one I rely on everyday, even if we don't actually spend that much time together," Sherlock finishes, shaking mildly. At this point, his eyes are locked on the man in front of him, who somewhat resembles a guppy with his mouth opening and closing like that.
John has no idea what to say to that. It's rare that Sherlock says anything at all about his feelings (that don't have anything to do with being bored), and for him to pretty much come right out and say, "I need you," is a bit of a shocker. The doctor watches as his friend nibbles at his lip a bit, looking nothing like himself with his wide-eyes and worried expression.
Eventually, the atmosphere turns awkward and John lightly bumps his forehead against Sherlock's and draws back, lowering himself into his own chair opposite his friend, who blinks once and smiles, reading the gesture appropriately before looking away again, lost in thought.
John tries his best to ignore the buzzing feeling in his legs as they go numb. Sherlock's head is rested comfortably in his lap, and while it's not unusual for the detective to ignore his personal space, there's something different- something intimate in the air. A sigh leaves the doctors lips as his fingers comb through dark curls, finding himself inappropriately undisturbed by the action. A low rumble rises in Sherlock's throat, and he shifts closer to John before opening his light grey eyes. John can't decide if this color is more intriguing than the pale blue they were earlier or not. The consulting detective tilts his head as effectively as he can in his current position and gazes at John curiously.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks the doctor, who purses his lips, but doesn't break eye contact.
"Just thinking about how things have changed a bit."
A feathery brow raises slightly. "How?"
John chuckles and swipes a curl from Sherlock's eyes. "Since when have you ever had the urge to lay in my lap like this?" he inquires, excluding the other times shortly after their ordeal.
Sherlock abstains from replying, all the bloody time, shrugging his shoulders slightly instead. "Since when have you had the urge to play with my hair?"
Feeling his cheeks redden, the doctor looks away, but continues to run his fingers through that dark mess. The man in his lap gives him a rare grin and closes his eyes.
"Don't worry John, I find it oddly soothing."
John can't help but smile and lets out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding slowly. Relieved that his actions aren't unwelcome, the doctor keeps combing through those curls - brushing them away from that pale forehead, those prominent cheekbones - relishing the fact that he can actually touch his friend and not feel awkward.
When Sherlock eventually opens his eyes roughly an hour later, John is still combing through his hair. The doctor doesn't move, only blinks, gaze locked on the other man's face intently, pupils blown. Sherlock blinks himself, three times in quick succession, reading so much out of his friend's expression his mind is swimming momentarily at the surplus of information. He watches closely as John licks his lips without realising it. He feels the other man's heart rate quicken along with his own, yet as the doctor's breathing quickens as well, Sherlock feels his stop. The other man hesitates slightly before a gentle hand is placed at the back of his neck, slowly lifting the detective's head up as John stretches to meet his lips somewhere in the space that was between them.
The kiss is soft and chaste, and when Sherlock doesn't react for a few moments, the doctor pulls back, brow deeply furrowed. His brown eyes are perturbed, bewildered, as he draws away. The younger detective pities him as John's gaze darts anywhere but the other man's (now) deep green eyes, which are slowly filling with emotions he can't place.
As John coughs, cheeks turning a dark crimson - obviously flustered and a bit angry at himself - Sherlock raises his upper body and places a firm hand behind the doctor's neck for support. Their lips touch once more, for a few moments longer this time, mouths still closed, still experimenting, before he draws away, eyes searching the smaller man curiously.
A smile gradually replaces John's dumb-founded expression as he leans back in, giddy as the knowledge that his affection is mutual and not uncalled for overwhelms him.
Sherlock finds his thoughts sluggish as his mind tries to process his actions and the motives behind them, soft lips and warm skin hindering him a bit. John is a close friend. A very close friend indeed. One of the only people he can trust. The only person he can be himself around without the nagging fear in the back of his mind that John will take it too personally and walk out-
"I'm married to my work." The thought is sharp and sudden, making him physically jump. John pulls away again, eyes searching the dark-haired man carefully. Do you want to stop? the brown eyes whisper fearfully, praying he hasn't crossed a line. Sherlock gazes back, mind working a bit faster now, though the lack of contact makes him feel cold.
Married to my work. Was that really what he was, or was that just something he said when he found himself wanting something more than this solitary life? He knew that alone was what protected him, alone was his safety blanket when everything else was chaos. But was he really as accustomed to all of that... emptiness as he thought he was? John's hand is suddenly at the bend in his knee, thumb rubbing back and forth cautiously. Sherlock closes his eyes. When he was alone, when he didn't allow himself to be involved with other people, he filled the void with drugs, and nicotine, and complicated cases no one else could solve. The detective surrounded himself with dead bodies, hard facts, and mysteries, because that was who Sherlock Holmes was, and that was his comfort zone.
But was that really better?
Was that really where he felt safe? With the constant danger and excitement of a good game, he didn't have time for safe. Didn't need it. Safe was boring, dull. Safe made people slow, unsuspecting, vulnerable.
But - Sherlock looks back into those dark eyes, gnawing the inside of his cheek, and tilts his head - what was this then? Here, in their flat, sitting in John's lap nearly nose-to-nose on their couch, he feels safe. But was that what he wanted?
Is this one man going to change his entire philosophy on life, his reasons for living, everything he held true since before adolescence?
He looks harder into that familiar face, studying every line and shadow, searching for an answer. It takes Sherlock a moment, hell, it takes him a few bloody minutes of fighting and inner conflict that John can see in the detective's eyes and the twitch in his mouth, the process being painstakingly slow for both. But the answer is clear as the ice in Sherlock's gaze shatters.
Almost desperately, he presses his lips to John's, surprising the other man momentarily before a solid hand his cupping his jaw, eager now that Sherlock seems confident about what he wants. Without breaking the kiss, the detective shifts in the other man's lap, sitting with his legs on either side of the doctor, groins and chests pressing together. A small groan leaves John's mouth, making Sherlock part his lips for an instant and the fair-haired man takes advantage of the moment to swipe his tongue past those impossibly soft lips and into that hot mouth.
Brows furrowing harshly, Sherlock struggles to force back a moan of surprised pleasure but doesn't quite stop it. The other man runs a hand down his detective's thigh softly before sliding their tongues together. Sherlock responds enthusiastically, all innocence leaving the kiss now as John sucks on the taller man's bottom lip obscenely as he moves to explore John's mouth, musician's fingers playing with the hem of his jumper before sliding underneath to run them up the doctor's side, making him shiver.
After several long, intense moments of snogging and grinding against each other like teenagers, Sherlock and John part, gasping for air, foreheads flush. Gradually, brown meets green and a soft smile and a chuckle is shared between them before they settle into the quiet calm of the flat they call home.
Then, when John seems to least expect it, Sherlock mutters quietly to himself, almost unaware of the man in front of him.
"Yes," the breathless, dark-haired man murmurs, heart hammering in his chest. A quick nod, as if affirming something to himself, follows, and John watches curiously, unaware for now that he's definitely the man who changed it all.
Wow... I left myself wanting more, but then this would never end... so I'll dedicate the entirety of next chapter to some epic Johnlock. Alright? If you don't want that, I'll attempt to make it so you don't have to read to understand the plot. If I can't, I'll recap for you or something.
How was this chapter? Good? Decent? Did I get Sherlock's reactions and feelings and everything okay? Been trying to work on his perspective lately... but it's hard to get into his brilliant little head.
Review if you want, if not that's fine too. Stick around, I promise the Moriarty plot is fermenting in my brain and I personally think it'll be a doozy. So far I'm proud of where this will be headed (evil grin).
Thanks for reading, lovelies, all of you are highly appreciated.