Author's Note: Thank you for any of those reading. Apologies for lack of update. Here, have one.
"I'm off out." John calls into the flat, snatching up his keys. He pats his pockets quickly, ensures he's got everything necessary—keys in hand, phone in coat, wallet in trousers—then calls again. "Did you hear me?"
"Yeah, all right, I heard you." Harry calls back.
"Did you need anything while I'm gone?"
"Erm, if you want to grab some milk."
John swallows quietly. It's one of those automated responses, something that just happens whenever something silly ends up popping up in his head. One of those ridiculous little memories that creeps in from the back and reminds him that once upon a time, he was the sole purveyor of household milk. Because Sherlock was shit at shopping, and couldn't be arsed, and it was irritating.
(Endearing.)
Not endearing, just irritating.
(Go on, the dumb look on his face he'd get?)
Was annoying. Couldn't even be bothered to get milk.
(Like a lost puppy.)
A bit confused.
(Eyes would go all saucer-like, lips would turn down a bit—)
Shut up.
"John, did you hear me?" Harry asks, emerging from the bathroom. A towel is over her head, and she's rubbing it viciously against her scalp. John snaps to, looks to the smaller figure and blinks dimly. Harry looks up and rolls her eyes. "Right, of course not. Off in your head again, I imagine."
"Erm—"
"Was only asking if you could possibly pick it up this time? I've got no—"
"I was going to, Harry."
She gives him a rueful smile and heads back to the bathroom, silence following after her. He sighs as he shakes his head, clears away the thoughts of Sherlock and his endearing puppy sort of looks (stop that) to make way for the day. Had to, after all. Couldn't just go on moping about after a month, could he? Besides, Mike had called him round. Wife wanted to have him over for tea. Quite nice, actually. It'd be fun.
He traipses his way to the main road to wait for the bus. Normally, he might have just taken Harry's car, but the smell was getting to be too bad and she was heading to work and really, the bus was just fine with him. The problem with the bus, however, is that it always allows him to get trapped in his own head for a bit.
Sherlock hadn't attempted to call, nor text, nor seek him out in any way. And that should've been fine, really. Should've been just what John had wanted but—no. He'd always assumed that if Sherlock had cared for him, he might have at least tried. Would've wanted to talk about it. Or, more in Sherlock fashion, would've demanded answers to questions that never got resolved. Sentences that never got finished.
But no, none of that had happened. Not a single one.
Not that John was checking, of course. Not that he'd been glued to his phone, jumping at every little alert. Not that he'd been hoping it was Sherlock every time (it never was.) No, John was moving on. He was doing fine. He'd started going out again, had gone down to the pub a few times and socialized like a normal human being. He'd even found the gall to exchange mobile numbers with a fairly attractive woman he'd met there. Hadn't called her, of course, but he'd done it. And that—as Harry had proclaimed—was a step in the right direction.
And he knows, he knows it's no fault but his own. He got caught up, thought it was something more than it had been. He knew right from the beginning that Sherlock, of all people, avoided those sort of intimacies. They weren't his strong suit. It was the one subject he had little personal experience in. But—John sighs as the bus trundles its way toward him, makes a complete stop just as his feet. The doors open and he steps up and inward.
But when it was good, it was fantastic. That's the problem. John had been in a few relationships in his life (okay, that was putting it a bit mildly) and they'd been pretty good at their best. But with Sherlock, the entirety of relationship was redefined. Perfected, in those moments. John could sit upon the couch, staring blankly at the television, and Sherlock would simply be there, wordlessly laying his head upon John's lap and going about his business. There was a calm, a stillness in the two of them. No words required, just enjoyed when the timing was right.
John finds an open seat beside a tall, gangly kid with a shock of green hair. He eyes John as though he may be some sort of slime producing bug before looking back out the window.
Laying in bed at night was the best. Not every night, of course. Some things didn't change—Sherlock on a case meant he was up until it was over, and John was all right with that. Because when it did finally come down to it, to the two of them stripping down and getting beneath the duvet, it was worth the fuss. Sherlock—much more of a cuddler than people seemed to realize—would curl up into John's body, would wrap endless limbs about him in every way he possibly could.
"—What if I grew another head?"
"You would be much more interesting to look at then."
"What, you think I'm uninteresting to look at now?"
"Did I say that?"
"You implied it."
"I implied no such thing. I stated that—had you a second head—you would be more interesting to look at."
"You said much more interesting."
"Which implies that you are interesting to look at now, and that the added head would make you even more interesting."
John gives a shake of his head, tries to scatter the memory into the recesses of his brain. No, he shouldn't be thinking about that. He's moving on, not sulking about in his mind, thinking back to all the good times. Because they were good times, and the bad always came with them.
(In all fairness, every relationship comes with good and bad.)
Yes, but one should also determine which bit outweighs the other.
(Bit overzealous, that.)
Shut up.
The bus moves at an alarmingly slow rate, it seems. The kid next to him keeps eyeing him as though he may consider squashing him beneath his boot. Every time the bus turns, the kid spreads across the seats a little more. At the next turn, John finally stands, makes for the back of the bus and waits it out there. He's already put himself into a fantastically foul mood and anything to push him closer to the edge should be avoided.
His stop lands him a block away from Mike Stamford's flat. He shoves his hands into his pocket and treks the short distance with a scowl and his head tilted downward. He shouldn't have thought of Sherlock. It was the last thing he should've thought of. Only messed him up, got his head in the wrong space.
It was Harry's fault.
(Don't be a twat.)
No, of course not.
Mike greets him with a warm smile and a sturdy handshake, invites him into his flat with a small gesture of his hand. Mrs. Stamford is cordial, a smile of her own plastered across her face. "Expect getting here wasn't too bad?" Mike asks, taking John's coat.
"Ah, no. Not too terrible."
"Good, good." Mike agrees, nodding his head. He looks toward the kitchen, where his wife has retreated, and looks back to John. "You'll have to excuse her, she's—" He looks for words to say, but nothing seems to come to head. John waits though, wants to know exactly what she is. Mike licks his lips and takes a deep breath, moves in a bit closer, "She's a bit weary, I suppose. Obviously knows about your—" He pauses, sighs. Ah, John thinks to himself, a bit weary that—maybe she believes he'll attempt to steal Mike from her if hung about too long. Maybe he should make a pass at him, just for fun.
"Right. Isn't she the one who invited me round?" John asks, brows furrowed and eyes averted to the floor. He licks his lips and gives a hesitant look to Mike, who looks a bit uncomfortable. He gives a little sigh, looks back to the kitchen once again and moves in closer still, "Sort of a self-therapy thing, if you know what I mean." He practically whispers. "Thinks it'll be easier to get over this—this phobia if she deals with it head-on."
"And so she decided to start with me."
Mike gives a sheepish smile and a little shrug. "I'd have had you round sooner but—"
"No need, no need."
Mrs. Stamford doesn't talk much. She settles the pot at the coffee table and distributes quietly. She wears the same plastered smile over her face the entire time. Mike makes most of the conversation, and all of it is a bit awkward. The tea is nice though, at the very least. It's not too terrible, until—"So have you spoken with—" Mike asks, cuts off before he can finish his thought.
John's jaw tightens and he hesitates before slowly sipping at his tea. "No." He answers after a moment.
"Oh, that's—well."
"Yeah, it's a process."
"Not even for cases?"
John swallows and keeps his lips trapped against the lip of his cup. He doesn't want to have this conversation. There is no need for the conversation to be taking place. He doesn't reply, but Mike goes on. "I've seen him a few times. You know, about the labs. He's—"
John clears his throat loudly, settles his cup against the saucer and gives Mike a pointed look. "I'm not actually interested in hearing about it, thanks." He replies. He tries to make it sound as nice as possible, as polite as he physically can, but just the thought of Sherlock Holmes starts mixing up ridiculous emotions in his chest that he really, really can't afford to cope with in the Stamford home. An awkward silence hovers over the room and Mrs. Stamford clears her throat delicately. "I'll go grab a few more biscuits, shall I?" she offers, standing and heading for the kitchen before anyone can say otherwise.
John stares at the cup before him. Mike opens his mouth to say something, but John feels his phone vibrate against his chest and lets out a quiet sigh (of relief.) "Where's the toilet?" he asks, his ultimate get away. "I've a call I need to make, and—"
"Down the hall, first door on the left." Mike replies quickly. Apparently, he's quite keen on a break as well. John gives a nod of gratitude and stands, escapes quickly from the room and enters at the first door on the left.
Deep breath. Mike hadn't meant any harm in his questioning, nor his commentating. Mike was—he was just a buffoon at times, could really be quite dim on occasion. Wasn't exactly the most delicate of people, usually. Couldn't see when something needed to be left alone right away. He hadn't meant anything by pushing, just—John sighs and rolls his neck along his shoulders. He needs a moment, just a little one, just to gather himself. His phone vibrates against his chest once again and he wonders why Harry's being so insistent about nothing as he pulls it from his coat. He taps the side button quickly and the screen takes a moment before it comes to life.
Need your assistance at Baker Street. SH
John's heart, he swears, drops right from his body. He stares at the screen as though it has just spoken Chinese at him, brows furrowed and eyes blinking rapidly. He checks the number it came from and, yes, that's certainly Sherlock. John slides his phone open and stares longer at the message. For what? What could Sherlock possibly need? Surely he wasn't seriously asking for John's assistance on anything? Slowly, carefully, he replies:
Think you've got the wrong number.
Good. He slides his phone closed as it sends and shoves it back into his pocket. Seeing a message from Sherlock may as well have been seeing it from a ghost—he can't think straight. He's wondering if Sherlock really did get the wrong number, if he slipped a finger and hit the wrong name. He shouldn't be feeling this anxious about messages from Sherlock, should be the cool, casual one. Nothing wrong here, it was necessary, had to be done. He takes a deep breath and halts halfway as his phone vibrates once again. Oh, Christ.
Urgent matter, John. Come at once. SH
Oh God.
John takes a deep breath and slides his phone open once again. His fingers are poised over the keyboard, ready to type in a reply, but everything comes up blank. He should reply with something witty, omit any sort of emotional draw that's actually pulling him. Instead, he takes a deep breath and simply types in:
No.
Yeah, that works. He sends it off and sticks the phone back into his pocket, makes a show of washing his hands for anyone who may be listening and finally makes his way back out into the sitting room, where Mike and his wife are sat close in quiet discussion.
"Sorry." John apologies, making his way back to his seat. "It was—" He pauses only briefly to sit, to consider who it should be. "Harry. Reminding me about milk." He lies. Hopes it isn't obvious. Knows it won't be, as long as he keeps a smile. Mike nods and Mrs. Stamford says nothing, really, just gives that same, plastered smile. He clears his throat and settles back into his seat properly. "So—Mike, how's teaching then?" John asks, casual and collected. He's fine, no. Sherlock didn't just text him. It's all fine.
Until his phone vibrates once again.
He swallows quietly and reaches into his pocket, snatches out his phone. Attempts to divide his attention between Mike's tale of students to the screen now lighting up with another message from Sherlock.
Twenty minutes of your time is all I ask. SH
As though negotiating. John takes a deep breath and nods at something, laughs at another. He slides his phone open and apologizes to Mike once again. He's not sure how to reply. He's not entirely sure he can manage twenty minutes at Baker Street. Not alone with Sherlock, not just the two of them. He might—who knows what might happen. He clears his throat again, quietly, to himself as he replies finally:
Ten minutes and I won't be sitting.
This is a mistake. This is a giant mistake and he really, really shouldn't be doing it. John takes a deep breath and pockets his phone once again. He tries to focus back on the conversation, tries desperately not to think about the fact that—once again—his phone is vibrating against his chest, matching the beat of his heart. He sips at his tea and looks appropriately interested and even gets Mrs. Stamford to chuckle just a bit. His phone vibrates twice more over the span of ten minutes. It isn't until he's finished his cup does he reach for his phone again. Two more messages, three in total, all from Sherlock:
I'll expect you in thirty minutes. SH
Perhaps twenty is more likely. SH
Or maybe even fifteen. SH
Same as usual. Mrs. Stamford pours more tea, delicate as she does, as John makes to reply to all three texts:
Won't be round until later. Busy until then.
After all, if he's going to bend to Sherlock's will (which he shouldn't be doing, should not even remotely be considering,) it should be on his time. He doesn't yet put away his phone, expects another text declaring Sherlock's unhappiness with such a situation. But it doesn't come. Nothing comes for a moment, just a radio silence that John is torn between appreciating and despising. And then finally his phone buzzes once again. He has to allocate every ounce of control he has in order not to fling his phone open immediately to read the incoming text.
As you wish. SH
John's brows furrow. Then one quirks. Sherlock conceding so readily? Perhaps the span of time unanswered was unseen irritation.
Though I did specify its urgency. SH
Ah. John smirks to himself and puts his phone away. Yes, he'll be waiting a few hours now. He'll leave Stamford's relatively soon (really, how much tea could he drink,) he'll head to Tesco's and pick up the end pieces, and then he'll relax. Pull himself together and make sure he'd be able to take on Sherlock in whatever fashion he presents himself. For whatever reason.
(It'll be something idiotic.)
Maybe.
(Something for a case.)
There is a possibility.
(What if it's something more?)
The answer's still no.
(Not even if he—)
Obviously not.
(Discounting so soon?)
Discounting immediately.
(Besides, he wouldn't do that.)
Exactly, he would never.
(That would only be wishful thinking.)
That would only be romanticising him.
(And no need to go and do that.)
Not a reason in the world.
That is annoying.
Being told when to expect someone. Expecting someone sooner and having them change the time in their favour. Power play, Sherlock understands. He's not an idiot after all. Fine, if John wanted to have the power in this circumstance, than he could be allowed to do so. But honestly, what a low stab at power it is.
Fine.
He's nervous now though, now that the time is approaching. He'd been fine really, up until John had finally replied with a time (quite late.)
(Intentionally late?)
(Why would John be intentionally late?)
Excuse to leave quickly.
(No more than ten minutes.)
Ten minutes is nothing, surely John realizes that.
(He's also no idea why he's being called around.)
Sure he's figured it out.
(Probably not. He's an idiot.)
A little bit.
Sherlock rolls his shoulders and sets the kettle to boil. This must go accordingly. He must not foul this up with improper language or bad tea. It must be done in the most orderly of fashions. He must state his case for John in a quick, efficient manner and then the persuasion may begin.
He wouldn't admit it to anyone else, of course, but the flat's gone—well, dull without John about. It's a wreck, mostly. The smiling face spray painted on the wall only sneers at him now, no longer grins gladly for target practice. The silences are now too silent—which, once upon a time, would not have perturbed Sherlock. But much like the rest of his life, he'd acclimatized to John's presence. Even in times when absolute silence was a necessity, he would find some solace in John's gentle, padded footsteps. Attempting to be as quiet as possible, always managing to create extra noise. Would hit his toe against the table, would spill a bit of tea on his chest. And each of Sherlock's thoughts would be intruded upon by a quiet curse beneath John's breath.
At first it was irritating. Then it was simply annoying. And now it was necessary to his thought process.
Sherlock does not seem to function at his best without John around. It's not exactly something he's fond of. There was a time, of course, when Sherlock worked alone and it was fine. No assistance required. Well, some assistance required, but Lestrade had done all right (wrong.) Okay, Lestrade was awful as a soundboard. Asked all the wrong questions. Didn't stir the right thoughts into Sherlock's head. Got him off track, off course.
No, John is a necessity. Like the food and sleep he insists Sherlock needs. An integral part of a working system.
And so Sherlock is convinced he can get him to come back.
He checks the time again and exhales gently. If he's staying with his sister, it means he's had to take a cab. As far as Sherlock knows, the last place Harry was residing in was in Stepney. Twenty minutes from here on a good day, thirty on a normal. Forty in a cab, he's almost certain. John's punctual, so he'd be arriving any minute. A tell-tale flutter bubbles up in Sherlock's chest and he immediately tamps it down. No, none of that. Must have best foot forward in this scenario. Must not be a raving lunatic. Well, not completely.
A buzz sounds throughout the flat and Sherlock swallows. He expected John to walk in without precedence, as he always had. It's uncomfortable to remember social manners in such a situation.
Another deep breath. Sherlock holds it in his chest as he makes his way down the stairs and toward the front door. John (obviously John, who else) hits the buzzer once again, holds it for a little longer. Thinks Sherlock is ignoring it, hasn't heard it. Blatant annoyance. Bad way to start. He gives himself a tiny nod as he grabs the door knob and pulls it open.
There stands John, looking no worse for wear. A little nervous, perhaps (arms crossed over chest—defensive, shoulders hunched just slightly—attempting to close in on self) but exactly as he remembers him (of course, as though John may look different, as though he may have grown another limb.) Sherlock gives what he hopes looks to be a perfectly casual smile (doesn't feel right, lip quirks too much, it looks like a smirk) before stepping aside and allowing John through. "Bit cold out, do come in." He says with a gesture of his arm.
"Yeah." John replies, and it's a bit stiff and awkward. Yeah, indeed.
"Kettle's just boiled." Sherlock adds, as incentive.
"Oh, right. Good." Another stiff retort. They stand awkwardly in the foyer, John's arms acting as some sort of shield, Sherlock's skin feeling too small for his bones. He leads the way—kicks the door shut behind him and passes John in his typical fashion, traipses up the stairs and back into the flat. A part of him, some paranoid little man leaping about in his stomach, fears John will not follow. Thinks he may just turn right back around, head out the door and into the night. It causes Sherlock to very nearly turn in his spot, ensure that John is coming up, will be in the sitting room a moment after he is.
He doesn't need to. He can hear John's footsteps fall out of sync with his own after the first few steps. John is a man of his word. Sherlock will get his ten minutes.
"Tea?" Sherlock asks upon striding through the door. He can hear John's hesitation in coming in too far—he stops just a few steps in and doesn't take off his coat (making a point, not staying long enough to get comfortable.) He glances back to look to John, who is shutting his mouth. Was he going to make a quip? Some snide little slight about Sherlock never making tea? Perhaps. It seems likely. It doesn't happen—too intimate to refer back to, wants to stay separate from memories. Difficult John Watson.
"Just the one sugar still?" Sherlock decides to inquire, "Splash of milk?"
John's brow quirks, and it's a little more than he's willing to give, because it settles instantly. Ah, surprise. Surprised Sherlock remembered such a detail. "Yeah, that'll do." He says, clearing his throat and giving a weak impersonation of a smile. Sherlock nods, just the once, and heads for the kitchen.
The flat goes silent. John hasn't moved. He's inspecting it, Sherlock imagines. Can almost feel him checking the walls and the furniture, seeing just what has changed in the month long absence. Sherlock had attempted to clean up a bit, thought perhaps it may be best not to have the ashtrays full (nothing more than cigarettes, thankfully,) but even he can admit that the state of the place is dismal in comparison to its former.
"Please sit." Sherlock encourages as he makes his way from the kitchen. Two cups of tea, one for John. Not in his mug, not the same. He gives a cordial smile as he hands it off, gestures for the chair that is rightfully his (will probably always be John's, the stupid thing, at least in Sherlock's head.) John doesn't move, simply watches as Sherlock makes for his own chair. Of course, John had said that as well. Ten minutes, and he won't be sitting.
"What am I doing here? You said it was urgent." John says.
Sherlock nods and clears his throat. "I would appreciate if you were to have a seat." The cordial smile remains on his lips, tampered with a hint of mild annoyance. "Conversations are best done at eye-level. Neither feels as though the other may attack, or leave mid-sentence."
"Is this going to be a conversation?" John asks, giving a patented John look—eyebrows raised, face open and sarcastically inquisitive. Sherlock's smile doesn't falter, can't afford to. He gives a small nod, gestures once more for the armchair with a long sweep of an arm. "Please, John." He says, softly. "Take a seat."
He can tell that John is fighting it, is battling it out in his head. He's deciding whether to give Sherlock the ten minutes he's promised, whether he should sit or stay standing or flee from the room in a hurry. In the end, it seems, courtesy takes over. His jacket remains snug over his body and he looks as though he may leave at any moment, but he does sit, which is a start.
"Thank you." Sherlock says, gently. Docile tones seem to be helping. He'll have to keep that in mind. He straightens his spine and squares his shoulders just a touch, forces his body to look proper and semi-authoritative. He settles his tea beside him and looks to John. "I know I've only an allotted amount of time, therefore I'll make this quick." He says, to no verbal reply. "I've been considering the circumstances under which we—" He pauses here, as though attempting to fit an inoffensive phrase there. "Under which we parted ways," He decides. "And they weren't the most desirable."
"No, they weren't." John agrees, and it surprises Sherlock to hear it.
"I thought it might be wise for us to, perhaps, sit down and discuss the matter further." Sherlock says, informatively, "Maybe we can come to some sort of resolution, or agreement, or—"
"No." John says.
"What?" Sherlock replies.
"No." John repeats.
Sherlock's brows furrow and his lips part as though he's going to speak, but John shakes his head. "No, Sherlock," he says, setting his tea aside. "Because we could talk about it until we're blue in the face, and you wouldn't get it," He explains to Sherlock's confusion, "You'd argue your point and I'd argue my point and that would be that."
"You can't possibly know that, John." Sherlock counters, though it's not his strongest counterpoint and he is quick to think of more, "I've done countless hours of thinking, days even. Holed up in here, nothing but thinking about what happened, what was done wrong, what needed changing, and—"
"And did you figure it out?" John asks. His face contorts, and it almost physically pains Sherlock to see it. It's a look of hope, mixed with weariness, mixed with irritation, mixed with—everything, probably. It's hard to suss out which shows up more.
Sherlock swallows. He licks his lips and looks down to his lap. "No," he confesses, "I haven't."
He can see it from his peripheral vision, the slow bob of John's head. He sees the shift in John's posture, the clasping of the arms of the chair, the eventual forward momentum of standing. Sherlock scrambles for purchase in his head, to make John go back to sitting, and it comes blurting out until he can think it through properly, "But you can tell me!" He proclaims. "You know what happened, what went wrong, where I can improve, John. You—"
"I can't." John interrupts, simply.
"You can, but you won't." Sherlock retorts.
"I can, and I could, but you're right. I won't."
"But then how do I change if I don't know what's wrong?" Sherlock practically shouts. Frustration is now evident, docile tones long gone. Hadn't meant for it to happen, it's just—irritating, as though this is some sort of game. Is it? Is this just a strategy game that Sherlock doesn't understand? He looks back to John and he is standing. So Sherlock's stands, too. "If you can't figure out what's wrong, then you aren't going to be able to change it." John tells him plainly.
"So then, in theory, if you were to tell me, then I'd be able to change it." Sherlock replies, as though reiterating a point.
"No, if I tell you, you'll get a superficial idea of what should be different." John argues, "It still won't make any sense, and you'll be sitting about trying to figure out what to change, or how to do it, and that's not going to work."
"Then help me, John." Sherlock pleads, just a little. It sounds more irritated than the latter, but John stops and stares. After a moment, he shakes his head. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Look, Sherlock. We—we both knew this was a risk." He says, exhaling as he looks back up. He waves a hand between the two of them, flopping at the wrist. "We knew that, right from the beginning. Polar opposites, remember?" As though Sherlock could forget. As though the memory of their first discussion, a proper one, could somehow slip his mind. "We knew the chances of this working out, like this was risky. I'm a needy twat and you're a selfish prick." Simple, truthful. "Let's just—let's just cut our losses."
He doesn't sound like he'd like to cut his losses. John sounds like every word hurts, like every single word that comes from his mouth is accompanied by a knife, and each one is rubbing against his insides. Sherlock isn't stupid. He can see that, can see the weariness in John's face. He swallows down more argument and watches John's face for a moment before quiet words that he hadn't quite permitted come tumbling from his mouth: "Please come home."
That very sentence may have ruined John. Sherlock can't tell, obviously, not having the ability to delve into a humans thoughts, but it seems that way. The flash of something in his eyes, the droop of an already-turned-down mouth. The sag of his shoulders and the general exhaustion that seems to overtake him. Sherlock hadn't meant that to be his reaction. But he's not against it. He continues on, "It's too quiet. I can't think properly. The flat doesn't settle right." They come out rapid-fire, insistent.
There are a million other things Sherlock could say. How he finds himself missing John's tea, and his nagging, and the warmth of his body at night. How he hasn't slept properly since he left, not really. How he considers and thinks and analyses every instance he ever didn't accept a hug or a kiss or just a pat on the shoulder and why he would've done that and how he never would again. But none of it comes out, it all get stuck in his throat and John stands there waiting for more and gets none. All that comes out is, "I'll change," and it's not convincing, and he has no idea where it came from.
And John doesn't stand for it.
He shakes his head and puts up his hands, surrendering, defensive. He backs up the whole step he can and turns for the door. No words, nothing. He'd leave and say nothing else and Sherlock can't have that, can't possibly allow him to walk out the door without something more. So there is a moment of panic, so uncharacteristic of Sherlock that it makes no sense in his head, but his feet move him and he reaches out for John before he can walk through the doorway. He shoves him against the nearest wall and John almost gets the chance to protest, but no—no, don't do that either John.
Before Sherlock understands what his body is doing, he is crushing his mouth to John's, hard and hurried, aggressive and needy. He is pinning him to his spot and forcing their bodies together, and somewhere in his head he knows he shouldn't, that this isn't right. John is squirming a little bit, not much, not really. He's hardly fighting and then he's not and then he's participating.
And it's glorious. It's grand and fantastic and beautiful. John's mouth hasn't changed, tastes like tea and toothpaste from an hour ago and John, and his tongue swipes itself into Sherlock's mouth, over his lips. The world turns itself upright for a moment and this is how it's supposed to be, Sherlock and John in their flat, mid-to-late-thirties but kissing like they're in their early-to-mid-twenties. John's hands fix themselves against Sherlock's hips, pull him closer still. Sherlock gives the quietest of groans, an instinctive reaction to force from John, and feels need creep up into his spine.
No words are spoken. John pushes the two of them off the wall, lips firmly affixed to Sherlock's mouth. He leads him, pushes and prods Sherlock backward, down the hall and into his room. Oh, it's all very familiar, just like before. Need and hunger, hips stirring and warmth lapping at the base of the spine. He shoves John's coat off his shoulders, peels it down off his arms in a hurry and discards it in the hallway. They manage themselves out of shoes as best they can, slipping them from heels and tripping over them in graceless sort of fumbles.
But once they're there, once they fall into the mattress of Sherlock's bed (their bed?), grace doesn't quite matter. By that point, it's a torrential tearing of clothing, of getting each other out of shirts and jumpers and trousers and socks. All while, somehow, still keeping mouth-to-mouth (they'd be breathing the same air, pass out and need revival soon enough—that's fine.) There are sounds emanating from the both of them, little whimpers and gasps, breathy groans and murmured half-words. Because it's primal, it's necessary. They need skin like they need the oxygen they're depriving themselves of.
Sherlock doesn't mention his overzealous joy at John's remembrance of their room. Wants to say something about innate actions and instinctive motions and how right it all feels, but he holds back. Lays back obediently and lays himself out for John, makes room as he always had and probably always would. He doesn't bother stifling the quiet gasps and groans as John prepares his body, finds his hands struggling for purchase against the sheets over his head and gripping for life when they finally do.
Neither speak. It seems as though words may ruin it, like the world has fallen silent, like the water has finally settled into a smooth, glassy surface. If they speak, it breaks. A stone gets thrown in and the ripples begin, turn into waves that won't die down. Not in time, anyway. Sherlock is okay with this, likes the sound of John's breathing and his own hitched little gasps, of skin moving over skin. His fingers grip tighter, knuckles turn white. His body is clamouring for attention, to be touched anywhere else, everywhere else. And he almost begs, almost—his lips form around the word "please," but it never comes out.
John is intuitive though, it seems. Or perhaps he's in his own hurry, perhaps his body is screaming in the same ways that Sherlock's is. Because a moment later John is sprawled across his body, lips securely fastened to Sherlock's and attempting to suffocate him. At least, that's how it seems. Sherlock loses his ability to breathe. No, he surrenders it. That seems more likely, given the circumstance. He simply allows John to thieve the air from his lungs as he lifts his legs, wraps them high up around John's hips.
Oh, and then he can feel John. Can feel him pushing his hips, breaching Sherlock's body and sliding into him. Both groan, against each other's lips. Sherlock's eyes squeeze shut and he attempts to breathe, but that seems almost impossible. He clutches his sheets tighter, his head forces itself harder against the mattress. Then there is movement, a slow drag leaving him, one that causes a stammer of breaths to tip from his mouth. A hand flies up to grab at John's skin, embeds his fingertips into John's spine and has no intention of letting him go.
The room is silent outside of this. Outside of John's breathing, outside of his moans. They're in Sherlock's neck, planting themselves in his skin as though they intend on nesting there. John's teeth and tongue drag over his throat, a familiar sensation of pain and pleasure scraping over his nerves. He knows he's making sounds, but how to define them doesn't come to fruition. Perhaps they don't need to be defined. Perhaps he can lay there and squeeze John tighter against him, can enjoy the friction of their bodies sliding over his own aching erection between them. He can revel in the welcomed invasion of his body. He can pant into John's ear, lips pressed as close as they'll go. He whimpers there, "John," and John groans in reply, his hips buck with a little more deliberation.
Sherlock's hands travel downward, work their way toward John's arse and give a squeeze. No, not a squeeze. A push. A plea for more, it seems. Sherlock is giving John quiet signals, taking action. He wants more of John, always more, wants him pressed up against his organs it seems and so he pushes as much as he can.
And then—and then there is a rush of sensations. Warmth pooling at the base of his spine, a building up and up and up against his hips of all those familiar sensations. He clamours to hang on to whichever bit of John he can, struggles to keep their bodies pressed so tight they might meld together. His breathing is becoming ragged, tiny escaped moans coming from his throat. Sherlock knows John isn't too far behind. He knows because he always knows—from the erratic breathing to the slowing dissolving coordination of his hips. The tell tale for such a position is this: he kisses him. Hard and needy and desperate to stifle himself, he forces their mouths together and it hurts in the best way possible. His tongue invades every little space Sherlock's mouth contains, and then loses focus and simply breathes him in.
It happens, not seconds before Sherlock feels his own body break beneath the sensation. John's mouth covers his, he swallows down all the sounds that Sherlock makes and stifles his own into Sherlock's lips. Growls come from somewhere in John's chest, deep and rumbling as he buries himself deep and lets himself go.
The room fills with gentle panting. Sweat lingers in the air like a cloud, hanging low and humid above them. John kisses him, or maybe he kisses John. Sherlock can't tell, but their mouths meet properly once again, a languid movement of lips and tongue sliding over one another. When it halts, when they stop, John pulls his hips back, leaves Sherlock's body. And for a moment, Sherlock panics. Just a little bit, just a little sporadic flutter of his heart. "Stay." He says, before John can get any other ideas.
John swallows. He looks to Sherlock and something flickers in his eyes, something familiar and warm, something good. "Please stay." Sherlock repeats, quieter, a near whisper.
And much to Sherlock's surprise, he does.