Hey, guys!
Yeah, I'm still alive. Did you miss me? XD Well, my trip was great but hectic, and now I'm bulldozed with the workload. (Psst, these are my excuses for delaying the update! Take a hint, will you?)
I am truly sorry for not replying to your reviews and messages. I'm pretty sure my days are consisted only of 10 hours. So, please, don't stop reviewing, because, when after a long, hard day my mailbox informs me that I've got a review, it's one of the best feelings in the world. Every review matters. so, please leave your thoughts after reading this. You can tell me even if you don't like it, just be gentle with your words. But please review.
Thank you so much for all of you who followed/favourited this series/fic. Chocolate cookies and Koala hugs for you! :D
Okay, so...this chapter contains silliness, fluff and the usual.
I hope you enjoy the read!
What if I kissed you now
And turned it all around
What if I kissed you now
And starts fell to the ground
Would I be losing you if I do, or would you want me too?
What if I kissed you now
What if I do?
- "What if I kissed you now" by Darin.
If Mycroft were a mansion he would have definitely looked like the one John was currently looking at. What made John kick Sherlock out of his newly rented bedsit, he didn't know, but it was coming back to bite him in the arse. John was here to patch things up with Sherlock...again.
He wanted Sherlock in his life more than anything else, he wanted to be a part of Sherlock's life too, but every time things began to look up, John somehow managed to fuck everything up. He didn't blame Sherlock for anything, no, never. He appreciated and cherished Sherlock and his sharp, rude comments and brutal honesty, but how could he blame himself for reacting when all he did was to protect his self respect? That was the only intact thing John still had now. When Sherlock came to his bedsit and gave reasons for why John should not be there, it made John feel like an incompetent invalid and it had hurt so badly. Maybe that was because all the things Sherlock said were true, maybe because it was Sherlock who was saying those things, but John couldn't bear it anymore and lost his temper. He lashed out, ending up saying some vicious things which made him feel like hanging himself when he was calmer.
However, he was here now to reconcile things. Tend the wounds. But the mere sight of this intimidating building sucked up half of his confidence. John realized that he was fidgeting for long enough to look suspicious to whoever sat behind that other kidnap car which was currently parked on the opposite side of the road. John squared his shoulder and knocked at last.
Out of all people he expected to see John wasn't prepared for a butler. Although whom or what he expected to see was not clear even to himself. Mycroft in a salsa costume, maybe? But definitely not a butler.
"Yes?"
"Umm...Sherlock?" Really, John? He wanted to smack himself but before he could rephrase his question the man in front of him replied-
"No, that would be the Young Master. I am the butler. Do you have an appointment, Sir?"
Young Master? The hell! What is it, some kind of real-life Richie Rich movie or something? "Uh...I'm John."
John might be wrong, but he thought a flicker of recognition went through The Butler's face. Yes, 'The Butler', with capital letters.
"Please come in."
"Alright." And entered one John Watson into the Lair of The Mycroft Holmes, which also contained The Young Master and The Butler. Phew!
John suddenly felt the absolutely awful need to make conversation while following The Butler. So, he said, "Sherlock knows me."
"I am sure he does, Sir."
"Mycroft knows me too." Uh, John, your point being?
"I am sure he does, Sir."
John huffed mentally. Well, served him right for making inane conversation. John tried to sneak glances at The Butler. Is this man even human? He is not even blinking, is he? Maybe he is part alien? Maybe Fox Mulder was right all along! Shit.
John also noted the complete lack of any personal photographs on the walls. The walls were not bare, of course. There were a number of those disgustingly pricey abstract paintings which John couldn't tell if they were hanging upside down or not, but not a single family or personal photograph could be seen among them.
"Please wait here. I will let the young master know of your arrival."
With that The Butler looked at John with his cold dead eyes that chilled John's bones, gave a curt nod, turned on his heels and vaporized. ... ... ... Umm, well, not really. But John thought it was very fitting considering the atmosphere and surrounding.
After looking around for few seconds, John saw a less intimidating looking sofa, settled himself on it and began to space out.
Sharing a flat with a friend or some stranger was one thing, but sharing it with someone, whose mere presence made John's heart beat faster and slower at the same time, was something that was entirely on a different league. John was having morning wood each bloody day since they shared the hug that night, for fuck's sake! John's sex drive totally crashed after his accident, but somehow that single hug from Sherlock had tickled his hibernating libido and now it was hungry all the time. How was he supposed to live a celibate, in his condition, with a man who was the object of his wet dreams? His wanking hand was not even working the way it should, for double fuck's sake! What if he couldn't control himself and pounce on Sherlock? Oh, God, oh no, he couldn't, He wouldn't...
"Sir?"
"No, I won't!"
"Beg your pardon?"
"Err...um..."
This time John could swear he saw The Butler suppress the urge to roll his eyes and said, "This way, please."
"Yeah, sure."
They stopped in front of a room which, John hoped, held one very miraculously cheerful Sherlock... What? Couldn't blame a man for hoping.
The Butler knocked lightly and after a pause opened and held the door for John to enter. John entered and something screeched.
"What the-"
John had no idea an innocent and non-violent looking instrument like the violin could produce such an unearthly, eardrum shattering sound. But apparently it could when it was played? Tormented? Beaten? by one Young Master.
"What ar-"
Screeeeeech.
"Owww, Sherlock?!"
Screeeeeeeeeeech.
"The fuck..."
Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech.
"SHERLOCK!"
Finally, the screeching stopped and the artist/tormentor turned to face John. Wait...was Sherlock...was he pouting? No, that couldn't be. John shook his head to clear it.
"Hi."
Blank stare.
"Umm...nice house."
Indifferent stare.
"I met...met you butler. He looks like, like a cosplayer, heh."
Scorching burning glare.
"...or not. Um."
John shut up finally and stood there looking sheepish. He felt like his nine year old self again when he got a three days' detention for stuffing a classmate's nostrils with nuts. That boy had a cold and John wanted to see how far those nuts could fly when he sneezed.
"I am sorry for saying some of the things I said to you the other day."
Pause. Glare. Frown. Narrowed eyes. And then-
The regal Young Master spoke at last startling John. "Some of them? Please do specify which ones. 'Obnoxious', 'bossy', 'arrogant twit' or..uh...what was that again..ah, 'snobbish prick'? That's a rather long list, don't you think? Take your pick because I do not like vague apologies."
John could feel the beginning of his temper. Although he was really sorry for calling Sherlock all those things, he was not sorry for reacting. And why this git could not accept a bloody plain apology? Must he be difficult and sarcastic all the time? But John was here to patch things up, not to ruin his chances altogether, so he inhaled deeply and tried to remind himself whom he was dealing with.
"I am sorry for all the sodding things I said to you. I did not mean them, well, except for arrogant prick because you are one and I honestly think that...um..no..not..um...anyway, I should not have called you names, but I am not apologising for my reaction. The way I reacted, yes, but not for why I reacted."
There was a pause and just when Sherlock opened his mouth to retort back, there was a knock. John's head instinctively snapped towards the door then again back at Sherlock, and seeing the face in front of him he thanked his luck for not having been subjected to that scowl, yet.
"What?" Sherlock barked.
The door opened, revealing The Butler.
"Which part of 'Do not interrupt' did not get through your almost non-existent brain?"
"I apologise for this intrusion, Sir, but I was specifically ordered to let you know that Mr. Holmes demands your presence in his office at the earliest."
"'Demands' my presence now, does he? Well, tell him to stop his sugar intake as he is clearly high if he thinks he is eligible for 'demanding' things from me. Now, remove yourself from my room at once."
"Of course, Sir."
"And Nestor?"
"Sir?"
"You are going senile if you think you are allowed to disrupt me with my brother's inane messages. Acid bath is recommended as a cure."
"Certainly, Sir. Would you have your tea now?"
"Mmm, no, not now."
"Very well, Sir."
Acid what? What? Did he just-?
"Now, where were we?...ah, ye-"
"Nestor?" John was still reeling.
Sherlock seemed puzzled for half a second, "What-Oh, yes, my brother's butler. Well, not really, though."
"Not really how?"
"He was actually my Fa- are you trying to distract me from the course at hand? Of course you are. But you hold yourself in high regard if you think you could succeed. Why are you here?"
"No, I didn't mean to. I just, well..."
"Why are you here?"
The time has come, John, buck up. Swallowing one's pride did not go well with eye contact, hence John lowered his eyes.
"I... would like to share a flat with you if the offer still stands."
Without skipping a beat Sherlock's voice piped, "Shall we go then?"
John's head snapped towards Sherlock who had a Cheshire grin plastered on his face, and already tucking that poor violated violin in the box.
"What?"
Sherlock look up with a frown, "What what? No time to waste John. We have a flat to rent. Come on, chop chop."
"H-hold on. Aren't you angry with me anymore?"
"Why on earth would I be angry with you?"
"But-but you were just giving evil eye just a moment ago, and battering that poor violin and yelling at your but- wait a damn minute! You manipulated me, didn't you, you bastard?"
"Absolutely not. I just chose not to react the way I was supposed to. There is a difference."
John should not find this haughty, irritating, incorrigible git so endearing. He should not.
"Oh, God. Fuck. Here I was going nuts about how have I hurt you and you just stood there with all those printed magnifying glasses and-and that..that stringy thing- that violin and those cheekbones and that fake crankiness...Jesus fucking fuck!"
"Your vocabulary appals me, John. And these pajamas are perfectly fine."
"Christ, kill me."
"I would, but the lack of motive would ma-"
"Oh, wow, look at the time! We have a flat to see, remember? Chop chop." There was no way in hell John would let Sherlock rant about how it would not be logical for him to kill John. Not now, and if he had any say in this, not ever.
John's effort to shut him up couldn't fool Sherlock, of course, but he just narrowed his eyes in reply and picked up his winter coat.
"Aren't you going to change? You are wearing pajamas."
"Which is a perfectly fine attire to look at rooms. Now, come on."
With that, Sherlock dashed through the door leaving John to bump at it.
"Ow."
~0~0~0~
John never ever ever had seen someone stop a cab like that. It was not like he had seen anyone do the things Sherlock did, but that was completely mental. The barmy git just jumped in front of a cab, held up his hand and yelled "taxi" and within seconds they were sitting in the car. Sherlock later told John that he never had any problem finding a cab. That's because the drivers are too shocked to react instantly, John grumbled under his breath.
By the time the car slowed down and finally stopped in front of a building with a bottle green door that said 221B, John's head was buzzing with information; such as, that gentleman with brown shirt was a banker and was cheating on his partner, or that old lady with that garishly red hat was looking for a shag, or that young girl was pregnant and thinking about an abortion, or that vegetable vendor had a thing for ballet and was currently trying to master it (the image of that gruffy portly man with that huge belly wearing a pink tutu and trying to do some ballet moves came unbidden into John's mind and he shuddered).
A single look at the building and John knew he was going to like it. It was nothing like he had imagined and everything he had wanted. Knowing about Sherlock's up-bringing John had feared that he would choose something overtly posh and way out of John's financial reach. In fact it was one of the reasons John was reluctant to share a flat with Sherlock. He doubted he could afford anything Sherlock would choose. He didn't expect this and it pleased him. There was even a little café just under the residential quarters. It was really nice.
Sherlock gave John a knowing quiet smile when their eyes met and then knocked.
"Oh, Sherlock!" A petite woman opened the door after a moment and engulfed Sherlock in a hug. She was a small old lady with brown hair, a warm welcoming smile and motherly air. After releasing Sherlock, she turned to John and beamed at him. John liked her instantly.
"You must be John!"
Although John didn't know why she was squealing.
"Er...yes, I'm John." He extended his hand only to be squeezed in a hug.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I've heard so much about you, dear. Oh, Sherlock, I am so happy for you."
"And yet you keep us standing in the cold."
"Oh please, as if you need any invitation." Then she turned to John and said in a mock whisper, "He is showing you off" and winked. Winked!
John tried to come up with something witty and ended up saying, "Erm..."
"Oh dear."
~0~0~0~
221B Baker Street was perfect.
It was cozy, simple and comfortable. It was something which John could get used to calling 'home'. The flat was stuffed with unwrapped boxes and paper stacks and whatnots. The previous occupants were yet to move their things, John noted.
He finished his inspection of the kitchen. The table was filled with all kinds of scientific equipments, some were still unwrapped. Maybe the previous occupants were Sherlock's acquaintances and he got to know about this flat from them, but then Mrs. Hudson seemed to know Sherlock really well... John's musings came to a halt when he bumped with a magnifying glass clad chest.
"Hmmph."
"What do you think?" Sherlock looked so energetic and hopeful but that tad bit of anxiety underneath didn't escape John. He knew this was important for Sherlock and he wanted to reassure him that he felt the same, but he looked so open, so beautiful at the moment that John had to take a moment before answering.
"Very good, very nice. It's really nice, yeah. I like it here already", he gave Sherlock one of his most open and warm smile, " Once this mess is cleared it will be perfect."
Sherlock scowled in return.
"These are my things. And I'll have you know that many of these things have helped me to achieve, correct and improvise many scientific theories. They are invaluable; not that I expect you to understand." Sherlock sniffed haughtily.
"Oh...ohh..um...now that...I think about it these," John looked around the room, "these will definitely make the room look cozier and..um..and-"
"Oh John, don't even bother. Here, look, I asked Mrs. Hudson to bring this chair from 221C especially for you. It's tatty and oversized; it even has this stupid Union Jack cushion- Queen and Country- very fitting, don't you think? You will like it."
Tatty, oversized? Fitting? John looked at his own clothes and worried his lower lip. Wait! "Did you actually make Mrs Hudson bringing it down here by herself?"
Sherlock shot him a withering glare, "Of course not, you daft. Mycroft's minion did it for her. Speaking of which...they will be here anytime now with your things."
"My things? What my things? How the hell they- oh God, Mycroft. What the fuck?! Doesn't the word 'privacy' mean anything to you two? But-but only me and my landlord have the keys. Surely Mycroft's men won't break and enter, will they?"
"Mycroft's name opens doors, John. Literally."
John didn't even want to think anymore.
"Oh, where did Mrs. Hudson put Billy, now?"
"Who?"
Before John could receive an answer Mrs. Hudson - as if right on cue – entered the scene.
"Yoohoo, boys, want a cuppa? Oh, Sherlock, the mess you've made in the kitchen. Maybe you should make that upstairs bedroom your lab. Don't you think, John?"
"But I thought that was going to be my bedroom." John looked at Sherlock and then again at Mrs. Hudson uncertainly.
"But you don't actually need that extra bedroom, do you?"
"Of course, I'll be needing it." John was really really really at his wits' end now.
"Oh please, dear, I am maybe old but I am not that old to assume that you still have separate bedrooms. You do not have to worry about being modest in front of me. There are all sorts here; in fact Mrs. Turner's got married ones." Another wink and then, "want a cuppa?"
Sherlock grabbed her, steered (more likely pushed) her towards the door and closed it once she was outside.
"Well, that's going to be our landlady."
"Yeah, nice. Who's she again?"
"Mrs. Hudson used to be our nanny and before that she was an exotic dancer."
John gawked. Suddenly he had a vivid image of a 60 year old Mrs. Hudson as an exotic dancer, and decided to never ever ever follow that thought, ever again. And if Sherlock's pursed lips and frown were anything to go by, he was having the same trouble as John.
"Well, let's then-"
"Yeah, yeah, let's just don't talk about it again...ever. yeah." John interjected before Sherlock could finish.
"But I was going to say we should start unpacking, John."
"Oh. Yeah, right, sure, let's."
"You were thinking about something else. What were you think- oh. Seriously John? Don't you have anything better than to fantasise about Mrs. Hudson's exotic dance?"
"I am not!" John barely managed not to shriek. "Can-can we just stop talking about it and start organizing the rooms, please?"
"But if you are eager then maybe you should ask her. I am sure she still has some of her old photos somewh-"
"Shut it, Sherlock."
"I was just trying to help."
"Sure you were."
"Idiot."
"Prat."
"Halfwit."
"Sod."
~0~0~0~
And thus they settled into 221B Baker Street and lived adventurously ever after...
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Or not.
Because John was sexually frustrated.
And Sherlock liked to lounge around in the morning wearing only a bedsheet.
And John's left hand was still unable to execute a proper wank.
Now, wasn't that just lovely?
No, lovely was when Sherlock was on all fours, on the ground, wiggling his sheet clad pert bottom. Just like now. Oh, sweet Jesus how lovely that felt to the eyes how lo- wait, what? What the hell that git was doing poking his head (and almost the upper half of his body) into the now cold fireplace?
"What the hell are you doing there?" John, though not really a stranger to Sherlock's antics anymore, still exclaimed.
"Wha-owwww." Sherlock hit his head while trying to jolt back. "Must you scream like that?" Sherlock trotted to the kitchen grumbling where John had started sorting out the groceries by now.
"What were you- Jesus! Have you looked at yourself?" John grimaced at his flatmate. Every surface of his upper body was covered in soot. "Just what in bloody hell were you doing there, Sherlock?"
"Did you bring the milk?"
"Don't you even try to change the subject. What made you half bury yourself in that sodding fireplace? God, Look at you, all sooty and dirty. Wait here, you daft lunatic. I mean it, Sherlock, do not move a muscle until I come back."
John came back within seconds with a wet washcloth.
"Come here, yes, sit on th- Sherlock, sit."
Sherlock didn't like when John used his military voice to scold him. It made him feel like a puppy, but he never actually complained besides grumbling unintelligibly. John started to wash his face carefully.
"Now, tell me what were you doing there?"
"Nothing."
"Sherlock."
Again that voice. Sherlock pouted but refused to answer. John stopped the washing.
"Are you trying to hide something from me?"
"No." Sherlock's tone was as indignant as ever, but John knew him too well to pick out the slight worry in that tone. He tensed.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, look at me? What are you trying to hide? Tell me, please." John was well aware of the relapsing tendencies of the recovering addicts. But Sherlock wasn't like everyone else. He wasn't. He just wasn't, right?
"Sherlock, what was that you trying to hide and why?" John was half pleading and half coaxing now. His worry was increasing like mercury.
"Nothing that might interest you."
"Okay, alright but-but there is no harm knowing, yeah? You know how I want to know everything about you, right?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake John, stop treating me like a child. I know what you are thinking, it's practically written all over your face, and no, I was not hiding anything related to narcotics. I promised you, John and I would keep it if you keep yours this time."
John's shoulder sagged with relief. He exhaled audibly. But then he perked up again.
"Then what was that?"
"A box, a bloody box, alright? I think I have as much right as everyone else to hide a box in m- our damned flat." Sherlock bristled with annoyance and didn't hide it.
But it wasn't enough to stop John.
"What's in the box?"
"And you lecture me about privacy. Hypocrite."
"I want to know... Please?"
Oh, damn John and his cobalt blue eyes. "Memories and some mementos."
And of course, this had the exactly opposite effect to sate John's never-ending curiosity when it came to Sherlock. But he refrained himself from saying anything and waited for Sherlock to tell more.
And of course, Sherlock didn't.
After some moments in which Sherlock's glare intensified and John's brow went from smooth to furrowed, John lost his patience and asked, "And?"
"You won't stop, will you? You will keep tormenting me like this, won't you? Fine, I will satisfy your unwanted curiosity and after that I don't want to see your face for the rest of the day, understood? All right. Yes, I was hiding a box. That box carry some memories. By memories I mean your letters which you have had sent me till date; the photographs you sent me while you were still in that bloody battlefield and some of your fallen hair bearing your DNA in case you get murdered and mutilated and I need to confirm your body. Anything more? Oh yes, of course, the question about why was I trying to hide it in such a disgusting place. Because you see John, my life is surrounded by nosy meddling imbeciles, and Mrs. Hudson, who informed me that she would dust my room along with the whole damned flat later, is one of them. It may surprise you but I really do have some things in my possession which I do not wish to put on display. I intended to remove the box once she finished her sneaking, disguised as unwanted dusting activities. I hope I have covered all your inquiries or is there something more you wanted know?" His face was red and was panting a little by the time he finished his speech.
John sat on the opposite stool like a statue, staring at Sherlock who stared back with all his might, but instead of heat there was sheer vulnerability in his ever changing eyes. The dripping sound of the kitchen tap intensified the silence more. The atmosphere was getting thicker by every minute, but with tension or with something entirely different, they didn't know. They just knew that there existed nothing else except for the person they were looking at and both of them held their gaze.
They held their gaze until one of them couldn't anymore. He couldn't stop himself from leaning forward. He couldn't stop himself from touching those lush lips with his own. He couldn't stop himself from holding back anymore, and kissed the man who had changed and redefined the meaning of his life.
Who kissed whom? Didn't matter. At least not right now.
That merest touch of that chaste kiss, those sealed lips on lips ignited the flames that engulfed the last remaining barriers which were holding back these two aching hearts, and molten love, desire and longing started to flow and drown them until John realized something was wrong.
In a daze, with still tingling lips, John pulled back from the kiss and blinked slowly at the man he now belonged to. After few more blinks, his glazed half-lidded eyes went saucer sized though. Because Sherlock was not breathing.
Sherlock. Was. Not. Breathing.
Oh God, oh no, oh shit. Panic rose like a wild fire and John touched and squeezed Sherlock's shoulders.
"Sherlock?"
No response. His closed eyes didn't even make a movement.
John cupped Sherlock's cheeks with both of his hands.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, breathe, come on, open your eyes and breathe, Sherlock?"
The long lashes fluttered and opened at last revealing startled silver-green eyes.
"Sherlock?"
A whoosh of air left Sherlock, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
"Sherlock, are you alright? It's okay, it's alright. It was just a kiss. I shouldn't, I just- but it's alright now."
Sherlock just kept his eyes locked with the blue ones.
"Do you...do you want me to leave?"
Sherlock didn't respond in any way but didn't avert his eyes either.
"Sherlock, you are scaring me a bit now. I didn't mean- I mean it wasn't- I just- I just wanted to kiss you so much and I...uh...I-"
Sherlock stood up abruptly, left the kitchen in long strides, went towards his room and John heard the click of a door being closed.
John stared at the emptiness in front of him.
~0~0~0~
Fox Mulder: The lanky, sassy, adorable git from The X-Files!
The song "What if I kissed you now" is my most favourite Johnlock song!