He should go over there. No he really shouldn't. He should leave the bar. He should walk right up to him and stop him from ordering another drink. He should leave the poor man alone and get out of his life. He should kiss him again. He should forget all about it.
He should order another drink himself.
This was ridiculous, he'd been watching John from across the bar all evening. Watching him get drunker and drunker, wallowing in his own self pity. No, not self pity. It was more like new found irreconcilable heartache. But they had been apart for three bloody years, they might as well sit and drink and be sad together, right?
Sherlock wanted to, he wanted to very badly. It was strange, this new tingling in his heart every time he braved a glace towards John. Every time John's eyes almost met his and his cover would be blown and he would have to eventually speak to him.
But what if next time they spoke John got violent? Or worse, kissed him again? He had no idea which one he'd want more, but at this point he was rather desperate for any type of connection. It had been a week. An entire week of unanswered texts, even one unanswered calls. An entire week of watching John from the shadows, an entire week of wishing with all his being to just return to 221B with him, to nurse their impending hangovers together. Anything. Anything would be better than being alone.
And apparently his unspoken prayers for something had been answered, for tonight something different happened. It was the weekend, so there were more people than the average lonely night crowding around the dingy hobbit hole of a pub. A larger crowd meant a stranger sitting directly next to John at the bar, placing himself right where Sherlock rightfully should be. If his close proximity wasn't enough, he happened to be a very handsome stranger, one who smiled wider once he looked John up and down. A stranger who ordered John another drink as introduction. And now got to hear whatever sacred, slurred words John had to share.
Sherlock couldn't help but immediately get agitated at the new presence in John's daily grim of drinking. This young, generically physically pleasing man was smiling at John, and laughing at anything he had to say. He was facing him full on in his bar stool as well, another sign of flirting. Not to mention the stranger's apparent recent purchase of condoms and obvious practiced nature of meeting strange men and taking them home. Sherlock fancied himself good at reading people, really good. And this man was obviously playing for keeps tonight. That was not okay. Not by a long shot. Anything would have been more okay than the thought of them going home together. But John seemed too far gone to care who he was talking to. Or who draped his arm across the back or his chair or who ordered him another drink.
Sherlock stood up from the bar swiftly, unwilling to admit that it was the painfully common place feeling of jealously which drove him to the other side of the dimly lit room. Dramatics never being too far away from his behavior, he arrive with a swirl of a long jacket and glaring cheek bones. He stood rather close to John, placing himself pointedly between the two love birds.
"No, this man is not gay, not interested, and not nearly deserving of your lecherousness attention. I'd suggest sicking your slattern intentions on someone else tonight; this one is spoken for and entirely above such common grease as yourself."
John stood up from the bar with such swiftness that it seemed of the numerous drinks from the previous hours had no affect on him whatsoever. Without another word he marched towards the exit, his brow furrowed and stomach in immediate knots. Sherlock had no business here, at his sanctuary. His blurry thoughts of rage and relief propelled him to flee.
All but forgetting about the disengaged threat, Sherlock tailed John into the cold streets of London, down into a nearly abandoned alley.
"John, you have to speak to me eventually, you might as well get it over with now," Sherlock called once he nearly caught up, causing John to slow his pace to a stop. He didn't turn around at first. He took a breath, focusing on the patterns of rocks in the cement below him.
"I have to talk to you? Do I really?" Now he swung around. If it were not for the slight wobbliness Sherlock picked up, John would have seemed almost completely sober. A true practiced drinker, nearly perfectly functional when wasted.
"What, like you had to speak to me eventually? Oh, that's right, you took your sweet time getting back to me. So do me a favor and fuck off, Sherlock, really. The only thing I have to do is to stay the hell away from you for a very long time. Maybe forever." He spoke as if he'd made his mind up, like it was set in stone. The finality of the matter set Sherlock's own heart to stone.
"John...that's not... How will that help you?" Confusion crawled onto Sherlock's brow. John had to stay close, not far. Can this possibly be what John would want? To remain in such a dark way separated? Was love such a fragile thing to John that it could, in a matter of days, be simply replaced by anger? If that was the case, Sherlock felt regret begin to whisper in the back of his heart. He knew he shouldn't have trusted the feverish impulse of love.
It was silent as John watched Sherlock's confidence crumble. Behind all the anger, the hurt and the rejection which consumed John, the look Sherlock gave him awakened the old protectiveness he had developed for the other man.
Sherlock doesn't get it- he never did and he never would- and that just wasn't his fault. For all Sherlock had done, at least John could see he wasn't alone in his suffering, that Sherlock was hurting too. Damn him! Sherlock was in the wrong, why should John feel sorry?
"I need to...dammit, I need to think, Sherlock. Give me time, please." John's voice had calmed down, but it remained cold, unwilling to welcome Sherlock back. "Time to muddle through whatever all this means, without my...well without being distracted."
"I won't distract you," Sherlock said quickly, "I'll stay perfectly quiet. I can even play violin if it would-"
"Jesus," John squeezed his eyes shut, "No. No, Sherlock, why-why would that help? You are the distraction. Just...Just let me alone, please." John turned his back to Sherlock to gaze down at the groud again. The ground was safe, it doesn't change or hurt him.
Silence spread between them until John was sure Sherlock had left. He wasn't sure why he was still standing there. Maybe hoping that if he were to stand perfectly still the pain would go away, that it would all drip off of him as long as he stopped thinking. Or maybe he could melt into the ground himself. He just wanted it to be over. To be able to move without the glaring truth and the blazing prospects piecing him.
He heard a hesitant foot step.
"John...I can't." Sherlock admitted. John squeezed his eyes harder and cocked his head.
"I can't let you alone, don't you see? That's the whole reason I came back in the first place."
Sherlock's voice was different than before. It was confident. Sad and maybe a a little tired, but sure of what he was saying. John rolled his eyes as he turned around.
"Really? You leave me for three years, then come back and expect what? A warm welcome into my bed? If I can take three bloody years alone, you can stand a few more nights."
Sherlock was suddenly very close to him, pushing him into the brick wall behind them. John could feel the warm panting and cold nose against his cheek. He himself was breathless in the dizzying sensation of having Sherlock so close, so intimately close.
Sherlock wasn't sure what had driven his movements- maybe it was John referencing an invitation into his bed or his own sudden realization that John would take him back, he had to- but he moved without thinking, something he rarely did. Actually, he found it a pesky side effect John had on him. Suddenly he was as close as he needed to be, his hands on the wall next to either side of John's waist. John's pupils were blown, his breath coming faster, and thoughts obviously moving slower. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the affect he was having. Not willing to give up the momentary control he had, he leaned in and ghosted his lips against John's ear.
"I've been alone all this time too, you know. These past years," his heavy voice rasped out a whisper in John's hair, "You know me, John. You know how slow I am when it comes to more...intimate matters. But I finally realized exactly what I want. And when you are ready, I'll accept the offer into your bed and I'll show you just how serious I am."
As he pulled away, John swallowed hard and opened the eyes he hadn't realized he'd been closing. Sherlock met his gaze as wholly as he could. His voice now came softer, dropping the sultry for sincerity.
"Know that when you come back," he raised his two hands to the sides of John's face, being softer than he'd ever been with any other human being before, "I will never leave you again. I beg your forgiveness for my ignorance of love..but I think, at long last, I may be getting the hang of it. And I trust you to teach me all I need to know."
With that, he pressed his lips firmly but gently against John's. Maybe it was the late hour of the night, maybe it was the amount of drinks he'd had, or maybe it was Sherlock's spontaneity, but John's head was spinning faster than it ever had as he attempted to kiss Sherlock back. He'd forgotten his grudge as he allowed Sherlock's lips to graze with an impatient slowness along his own. When the kiss was over, Sherlock rested his forehead against Johns.
"When you are ready, you know where to find me."
John stood against the wall, staring at the space where Sherlock had just been standing, his lips pursed in frustrated contemplation.
That bastard. He had no fucking right, none whatsoever. He had no right to touch him, to catch him on fire, to flaring into his heart, to make him hard, and then run away. That fucker should be on his knees begging for him back, not fucking seducing him.
No respect. That's what it is. No respect at all. And yet, John felt the tick of a smile pull at the edge of his lips.
Are you fucking joking me? Don't you fucking dare. You should be pissed. Yes, very pissed. Enraged even. Don't you dare start thinking about what just happened. It wasn't sexy, it wasn't romantic, it was fucking rude.
Yes, rude...a hell of a turn on, though.
On the vertiginous walk home John was stuck between alternating thought patterns of 'fuck him, the complete ass thinking he fucking owns me, how dare him, the nerve, he left me,' and '...but that did taste incredible...where does a fucker like him learn to kiss...no stop...'
~A/N: Hey all! No excuse for how long this took to post! I'm sorry for keeping you all waiting, but at long last, I hope you like it :) There should be two or three more chapters. Expect some Mary, some Trisha, some happiness, and a tiny surprise ;)