"Well, my boy, so I can tell the missus I asked, tell me about yourself," Mr. Holmes ordered. John chuckled obediently, unsure what the man wanted him to say. Mr. Holmes sat down, prompting him to follow suit. "Doctor of what?"
"Erm…people. I'm an M.D. First an army doctor, then private clinic when I got back from the war," John summarized, unsure if he was talking to a genius or not. A remarkably unusual question to ask someone, and potentially quite rude, so he kept it to himself.
"Sherlock never tells us anything about himself. Ridiculously private, that boy. Always has been," Tim complained. John nodded understanding.
He tells me things now, he thought proudly but didn't say. Then he had to wonder if Sherlock's parents had known about the falsehood surrounding his 'death' or if they'd mourned as well. That hardly sounded like small talk though, so he said nothing.
"Iraq?" Mr. Holmes tried again and John became aware too late that the man was trying to get him to talk. Right.
"No. Erm. Afghanistan," he said and the man nodded as if that meant something.
"That must have given you a useful skillset, for dating my son," the man said and John squinted at him, trying to determine if the man was being derisive or not. now John really wanted to know what Sherlock had said about him. Mr. Holmes waved him down, in a reassuringly casual gesture.
"Oh don't worry, he's not spreading anything about you two. It's just..Sherlock has never brought anyone home since his college lover, so it's easy to fill in the blanks," the father reassured him. John shifted in his seat, questions building up faster in his mind than he could ask them, and he was fairly sure it'd be prying to ask any.
Male or female? Did Sherlock love them? Was it serious? How'd it end? How'd Sherlock handle it?
Tim's mouth curled up, clearly following his thoughts. "A boy named Victor something. I can never remember last names. A nice enough lad, but we always thought he was a bit too happy to use Sherlock's insecurity for his own purposes. Sherlock was forever doing favors for the boy. We weren't displeased to see him go," Tim explained, unprompted. John nodded shortly, unsure if he should explain that Sherlock and he weren't lovers. He didn't wish to. He wanted this. He wanted all of this. Every year at Christmas. Every moment between.
"Oh, dear God. It's only 2:00. It's been Christmas Day for at least a week now. How can it only be 2:00? I'm in agony," they heard Mycroft moaning from the kitchen. Mr. Holmes settled back into his chair, as if comforted by the sound.
"Mikey, is this your laptop?" Mrs. Holmes's voice followed, sounding annoyed. Tim's eyes glittered with amusement at the sound.
"Upon which depends the security of the free world, yes, and you've put potatoes on it," Mycroft answered. John let out an exasperated snort at the same time as Mr. Holmes chuckled and they shared an understanding glance, listening to Martha scold her son.
"Complete flake, my wife, but happens to be a genius," the man related, looking remarkably self-pleased.
"What'd she do?" John asked, picturing the middle-aged woman rushing through the London sewers, chasing after criminals, covered in muck.
"She's a mathematician. Gave it all up for children. I could never bear to argue with her. I'm something of a moron myself. But she's…unbelievably hot," he said and John grinned, trying to remember the last time he'd seen a man look as happy with his wife. Mr. Holmes appeared to be utterly content with his life in this farm house, despite the strange nature of his sons.
"I'm never bored," John replied, glancing at the fireplace as if he could see Sherlock behind it.
"No, we weren't either, raising them," Tim replied, shaking his head. "Sherlock would go a week without saying a thing, only to disappear for a full day and arrive on our doorstep flanked by two policemen, all agog about some experiment or the like. Half impossible to get him attending school," Tim complained.
"That doesn't surprise me at all," John said and Jim nodded, looking pleased by the statement.
I want this.
Hell but it'd been too long. A real relationship, a family, a friend turned lover?
Sherlock walked into the room, just as opened his mouth to reply.
"Oh, sorry, I just…" Sherlock started, jerking to a half. John glanced at his lap, only too aware he had just been talking like Sherlock and he were long established lovers. Mr. Holmes glanced between them, noticing too much.
"Oh. Do you two need a moment?" he asked and Sherlock glanced at John, clearly asking do we? They were going to need to attack Magnussen - the helicopter was going to arrive soon. Yes, they needed a moment first.
"If you don't mind," John confirmed and Sherlock swallowed heavily.
"No, of course not. I'll go see if I can help with something or another," Mr. Holmes said, levering himself out of his chair and leaving them alone. Sherlock stayed standing.
"You're not contradicting their assumptions," he noted. John blinked. He'd been planning on starting the conversation about Magnussen and their plan of attack but Sherlock was watching him curiously.
"Neither are you," he reflected and Sherlock tilted his head, acknowledging that. "You never have done," John added, trying to get himself to finally ask 'why not?'. They heard the shuffle of people outside the living room door. Probably close enough to hear inside. John stayed still, waiting for them to move away.
"Those two. They all right?" they heard Mr. Holmes ask. John closed his eyes in mortification. He shouldn't have deceived the man.
"Well, you know, they've had their ups and downs," Mycroft replied, not revealing them.
Sherlock's eyebrows lifted in surprise at that and they heard the two men walk away.
"I don't understand. What are we doing?" he asked softly, his voice deep. John lifted his hands up from his lap, indicating helplessness.
"I have no idea. I'm not asking you for anything," he answered. Sherlock sucked at his tongue, like that was sour news.
"I wish you would," he said finally before turning around and cursing to himself. "No, damn it, I'm supposed to wait. 'Until something happens'," he sneered, clearly quoting someone. He spun back, his eyes flashing in frustration. "Damn it John, I can't abide uncertainty. Tell me truly, are you attracted to me?"
John swallowed, reminded Sherlock's family could probably hear.
"I don't like being touched," he replied in lieu of answer. Sherlock scowled.
"Neither do I. Not my question. Do you want me or not?" he demanded. Now that was a whole separate question, John thought desperately, rubbing at his eyes. Sherlock waited for him, his eyes blazing, his shoulders stiff as if expecting a blow.
He still expects me to say no, John realized. That didn't seem right. He'd kept Sherlock at a distance with all his strength, yes, but Sherlock was there for his tortured confession, saw his erection in the damn bathtub, knew now that John wasn't leaving again whether they admitted it or not - what else was so obviously in the way? John ran his hands down his pantlegs, wiping off sweat. He was going to stay at 221B. As friends or as more? That suddenly seemed entirely in his control.
"Sherlock.." John started and Sherlock deflated at just the one word. The most intense attractive man he'd ever met, who'd give his life and his reputation for him, who'd slow down his work for him, help him bathe and watch him panic without fear or ridicule, and not expect a thing in return.
Goddamn it yes, I want him.
John got up slowly, blowing out a heavy breath to join Sherlock standing in front of the staircase. Sherlock stared down at him, waiting to be crushed.
"I don't like being touched. That's been true since Kandahar. It's hardly better now," John announced.
"Obvious," Sherlock sneered at his confession. "You dated. You never had sex with them. The futon, the lilo, the sofa with Sarah-Susan, wasn't it?" Sherlock listed obnoxiously.
"Sarah," John corrected automatically. Sherlock shrugged. John pinched the bridge of his nose. Not the point. Sherlock cut him off.
"I can't handle boredom. Or quiet. I usually don't like people touching me or trying to tell me things I know or acting unpredictably just to feel special. I did drugs when I was alone so my brain was occupied. Then did drugs when you left so I could say it was convenient to have you gone," Sherlock listed. Trading admission for admission? John could do that.
"I don't want to say I'm attracted to you, only to panic when you touch me. I don't like water or fire starters or anything around my wrists. I don't like people behind me," John replied. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.
"I don't like feeling held down or contained," Sherlock replied. John huffed out a laugh. That one was easy.
"Me either." he said. Sherlock glared. Apparently that didn't count. "I don't want to accept that I can't live alone," John replied. Sherlock frowned.
"Is this better? Ignoring it?" he asked.
"I doubt it," John admitted and Sherlock looked pleased with himself.
"What does that have to do with me?" he asked finally and John laughed, shaking off the tension between them. Of course Sherlock was thinking about himself.
"I have too many problems to get into a relationship," he admitted finally, angry with himself more for that pathetic truth than for admitting it. Sherlock didn't look appropriately scared off.
"So do I," he replied easily and John blinked. The underlying point was obvious - how long would they wait, trying not to be broken, before they tried being broken together? They'd been close to that, before Sherlock had jumped. Why not go the rest of the way now, as far as they could go?
"Most of me wants to kiss you and the rest wants to back away," John admitted. Sherlock smirked at the word 'kiss' and shrugged.
"Me too," he said and waited. John stayed where he was. What the hell was he agreeing to?
"Move back in with me," Sherlock ordered.
"Okay," John agreed immediately, something tight in his stomach easing.
"Touch me when you want to," Sherlock added. John swallowed. He wanted that.
"Okay," he agreed again.
What is this going to look like? There were too many emotions rushing up in his chest, now. Hard memories and too much fear. He didn't want to touch anyone.
"You…do that too," he said finally. Sherlock smiled widely, the expression practically splitting his face. John shifted, starting to think that uncomfortable bubbly sensation in his chest was actual happiness rising once again.
I love you, he thought but did not say. That would come out in its own time, he was sure.
"Excellent," Sherlock declared and spun on his heel. "Let's ask Mycroft to let us steal his laptop 'upon which depends the safety of the free world'," he joked, starting toward the kitchen. Yes, John thought, following after him, they still had to do the whole exciting part of the day. It felt rather droll, coming after this. He wanted to sit down.
"Did you bring your gun as I suggested?" Sherlock asked just as they walked into the crowded room. John closed his eyes.
"Why would I bring my gun, which I cannot shoot, to your parents' house for Christmas dinner?" he asked into the sudden quiet.
"Why would you bring your gun if you could shoot it?" Martha asked primly. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock smiling at his mother. The woman frowned at them for interrupting her holiday, apparently anticipating them.
"Is it in your coat?" Sherlock asked and his father cleared his throat.
"Sherlock, do you want to fill us in?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.
~~/~~
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