sh (humanerror) wrote in thedisplaced, @ 2017-11-24 17:26:00 |
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Sherlock was sitting in the lab scrolling through his phone when he spotted it: Joan Watson. His heart rate rose, which was interesting, as was the shortness of breath. So his theory was correct — she had, in fact, arrived, because it was impossible for her not to. That didn't explain why a sudden and explicable thrill ran through him at the prospect of meeting another version of John, though. But that was hardly Sherlock's biggest problem at the moment. No, what he needed to do was ensure that John knew how devoted he was to him — to their relationship — something he knew John struggled with even without the sudden appearance of an interdimensional twin.
That meant he needed to prepare.
On his way home, Sherlock proceeded to purchase a few necessary items from the corner shop, cooked a hearty dinner, ran Beatrice through training so that she would be tired later, and put on the shirt he knew John liked best. By now, he was certain the man knew about Joan already, so it would be a delicate balance of wooing and comforting tonight — depending on what mood the man was already in. When he finally returned home, the dinner would be plated and ready, as were two glasses of wine, with Bee completely conked out on Sherlock's chair.
It was a smooth day at the hospital; no problems, no emergencies, and John workload was pretty easy. He went through his routine, checked on his patients, and had the time to settle down in the cafeteria with a snack where he lazily scrolled through the most recent network posts. The name stood out from the rest of the new arrivals the way a spotlight pierced through darkness: Joan Watson. John’s face fell, his stomach churned, and the coffee and sandwich on the table in front of him became unappetizing. He checked the comments that were already made to her, and after a poignant minute during which he deliberated on what he should do, he finally introduced himself. Typing the words on his handheld device with one finger, he hit Enter, and immediately regretted it. But he might as well get it over with.
The exchange online with her went as well as John anticipated, which was not well at all. He was left with an empty feeling inside. This Joan… this alternative... seemed more together, confident, nicer. Insecurities arose, and the rest of his shift was spent with self doubt and hatred. Why was he so messed up? What did Sherlock even see in him? He began imagining Sherlock preferring Joan - not sexually, because John knew Sherlock wasn’t into women, but intellectually. Hell, between his crazy schedule at the hospital and Sherlock’s attention focused upon his lab work, they hadn’t been physically intimate with one another since that first day Sherlock arrived, weeks ago. Sex wasn’t important to Sherlock, but one’s mind? John assumed Sherlock always admired that more, and Joan seemed superior to John in this regard. Why, John began imagining Sherlock wanting to be with Joan more and more, until he eventually faded into the background, unnoticed. Unloved. Such was John’s thought process, a self-depreciating, downward spiral.
Once his shift was over, John stopped at the Mystic Grill along the way for a drink at the bar, which helped him wallow in his mental misery. When he finally got home, he was first greeted by the delicious scent of food coming from the kitchen. Confused and curious, John called out, “What’s the occasion?”
"We're going to have sex," Sherlock answered plainly. He saw no reason to play coy — that wasn't like him, and besides, if John wanted someone who feigned ignorance, he certainly wouldn't have pursued Sherlock in the first place. "Dinner first. Some wine. Then we'll do whatever you like for the rest of the night." He served boeuf bourguignon, a rich dish he'd learned to make as a teenager when he watched and memorized all of Julia Child's cooking videos over one summer. With any luck, John would like the heartiness of it paired with a smooth red wine.
He sat at the kitchen table and beckoned John over so that they could sit together. It was reminiscent of a night at Angelo's — warm, intimate, and slow, so unlike their usual way of rushing around constantly, chasing after the next thrill. Sherlock stole a bit off John's plate anyway, though, something distinct glinting in his eyes.
As confident as he might have seemed right then, however, he wasn't, really. Sherlock didn't know how to do romance — he just knew what he and John liked, and hoped that it would be enough to entice him.
The purple shirt Sherlock wore was John’s favorite not only because the color flattered his pale complexion, but that the buttons strained slightly across his chest in such a way that always distracted John. He just so happened to be gazing at those buttons when Sherlock announced his reason, and then John looked up and blinked out of surprise. It had been so unexpected that he remained speechless for a couple of seconds before replying, “Alright,” with hesitation.
An invitation like this might’ve aroused John on any other evening; he would’ve rushed through his meal so he could quickly get their clothes off. But, as much as he appreciated everything, Sherlock’s thoughtfulness, the meal, the hard work and planning put behind it, John still found himself at a loss. He sat in front of his plate, fork in hand hovering over his plate, but not touching anything, his forehead fretted with care, and a frown upon his distraught face. Sherlock was so loving, John decided Sherlock didn’t deserve somebody like himself.
Finally, he mumbled, “I know why you’re doing this.” He nervously glanced up at Sherlock to confirm. “I saw her post, too. Joan. You don’t have to. The dinner, the sex. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, the dinner looks amazing, you look amazing.” And John meant it, too. “What I’m trying to say is, you’re not obligated.”
Sherlock waited patiently while John spoke. Before, when he'd began to slowly unearth his boyfriend's insecurities back in Preya, he'd been horrified and deeply worried. That concern was still there — frankly, it would always linger, simply because he adored John and wanted him to be happy -- but now it was much easier to hear because he'd all but anticipated this. "You do realize I never do anything unless I want to," Sherlock commented idly, keeping his tone light. He speared another bit of food off John's plate to make his point even more clear, then took his time chewing and swallowing. "In fact, I detest wasting time. If I didn't want to feed you, then drag you into our bed for several hours, I wouldn't. Obvious." Sherlock spoke matter-of-factly because, for him, it was all very simple.
But perhaps John would need a little more convincing. He wasn't the most rational when in this frame of mind.
So Sherlock shifted to press their legs together under the table and leaned forward, chin in his hand. His eyes were half-lidded, watching John with dark eyes. "I've had plenty of opportunity to have sex with people before I met you, John. None of them appealed to me. Not one. You were, and remain, the single entity in existence that I want and continue to want. You'll also be the last. I have absolutely no desire to even attempt to look elsewhere. You're everything to me, and quite frankly, I hate your job at the hospital because I've wanted you since we arrived. Now, will you eat or not? I'll be insulted if you don't at least try it." He sighed like that was a great offense.
Damn it, Sherlock was bewitching. The tone of his voice was seductive without even trying, combined with the strategic placement of his leg and the way he leaned forward and gazed across the table made him difficult to resist. John fell hard for his posh boy, and always would, and his mouth sagged open as he breathlessly internalized what Sherlock had said. His concerns went deeper than worrying about Sherlock finding another sexual partner, but at this moment, he was powerless to argue.
John swallowed, then moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue, unable to take his eyes off Sherlock, until finally he nodded his head and muttered, “Okay.” He then turned his attention to the meal set before him, tasting and finding it as delicious as it smelled. The food stimulated his appetite , making him realize he hadn’t eaten anything since a quick breakfast in the morning. “Where did you learn to cook like this?” he asked. It was better than anything he’d even had in a restaurant. He began eating, and in between bites, he confessed, “I don’t like my job at the hospital either. It’s not like the clinics I’ve worked at, before, the hours are awful. I know we talked about me writing stories for the paper when we were at Preya, but... “
Sherlock knew perfectly well how deeply ingrained and pervasive John's issues were. But he also knew that not everything could be worked out in one sitting over dinner. They were both broken people, riddled with insecurities and hangups. They were also perfect complements of each other, and that, more than anything, was what Sherlock could trust. He would ease some of John's burden tonight and hope that the rest could be carefully unwound with time and patience, both of which he would always have for his beloved. The attention John paid him was, however, quite flattering, and Sherlock smiled a little before returning to the food.
"Taught myself," he replied, chewing another piece of meat. "My parents were touring Europe and Mycroft was away on a summer program in Rome, so I memorized all of Julia Child's videos. Quite informative. It was either that or starve, so I chose to at least learn from the best." It wasn't really strange to him that he'd had the entire house alone for three months, nor did it occur to him that most teens would have thrown parties at that age. He didn't mention the science experiments, though.
He glanced at John, mind already working on possible solutions. "Is it just the hours you dislike?"
For as long as they’d known each other, John didn’t know a hell of a lot about Sherlock’s past - what he’d done before they’d met, especially when he was younger. This bit of information was filed away like a precious piece of a puzzle. “Touring Europe with your parents didn’t interest you?” he asked after swallowing a mouthful of food. He then set down his fork and gave Sherlock’s question some serious thought before answering. “The hours are hell,” he admitted - there were days when he’d return to the flat so exhausted all he could do was flop down upon his chair and stare at the ceiling. “But there’s more to it than that. I’ve been feeling…” he paused to choose the right descriptive word, and came up with “...dissatisfied with what I’m doing. I feel there ought to be more.” John looked at Sherlock and told him, “I never thought I’d be the one to ever say this, but I need a case.”
Sherlock hummed, a noncommittal sound. "Touring Europe with their son didn't interest them." He shrugged. It wasn't like everyone could handle his antics in close quarters for an extended period of time, and since Mycroft wasn't around to look after Sherlock at that age, their parents simply hadn't invited him. He'd never really thought critically about the fact that neither Violet nor Siger Holmes had ever made any attempt to accommodate their youngest son. Sherlock knew they loved him in their own way; anything else was a useless thought he shoved aside.
He listened to John as he spoke, taking in his body language and the stress that seemed to radiate from the man. The last request made his eyebrow raise slightly, though, and then Sherlock began to smirk. "Very well," he said, taking out his phone so that he could bring up the mail app. Then he put it on the table between them and turned the screen so that John could see (or scroll, whatever he wanted): hundreds of cases, an array of all different kinds from people across the country. "You'll have to determine which ones are worth our time, of course. But there you are." He liked being able to make John happy. It meant he might get praised (yes, Sherlock was that predictable).
Reading between the lines, John could tell that the subject was a sensitive one. How could it not be? Neglectful parents. Isolation. It wasn’t something he wanted to pursue, given it might ruin the mood, so again, John tucked the information away for another time. Instead, he asked, “Do you want to tour Europe? I mean, while we’re here? Not now, of course, but in the future? I’m friends with both Rose and River Song, and I could ask about getting a ride in the TARDIS. A holiday, with just the two of us?” A romantic getaway.
John’s eyebrows rose with curiosity when he looked at the mobile, but when he picked it up and read what was there, he warmly smiled, first at the lists of cases, and then at Sherlock. It was abundantly clear that Sherlock missed doing detective work, infinitely more than John did. In the past, when he became restless to solve a mystery, Sherlock would shout BORED, or shoot bullets into the wall, but he managed to keep his outbursts of melodrama controlled. This was a big step, one which made John proud.
“Come here,” he told Sherlock, but didn’t wait for a response - he leaned across the table and placed a slow, lingering kiss upon his boyfriend’s lips. “I love you,” he said with confidence. “This is what we’re supposed to be,” he added with a sudden clarity of mind, spoken spontaneously before he had a chance to censor himself. “Not a lab tech and hospital worker, but Holmes and Watson, solving murders.” It was their universal role, one that spanned the centuries, and immortalized in numerous alternative versions.
Sherlock blinked several times, confused when John's mood seemed to shift right before his eyes. The stress from earlier vanished, and his boyfriend was giving him that look, the one he'd craved and desperately tried to replicate from the first moment Sherlock saw it directed at him. What did I do right? He wondered, but was too pleased by the kiss to really question the sudden change. "Does this mean you're quitting the hospital?" Sherlock asked, trying somewhat successfully to keep the hope out of his voice. Because if they could make their own schedule again, taking on cases would be much easier. Not to mention finding time for this, too — the quiet, intimate moments between them, where they weren't in a rush and could simply enjoy each other.
He leaned in to steal another kiss, resting a hand against John's knee. This felt right. Except Sherlock leaned back again as quickly as he'd swooped in to capture his boyfriend's mouth, because they were going to finish eating what he cooked, dammit. His eyes were glinting, though. Probably a good sign.
While seriously considering the answer to Sherlock’s question, John sucked upon his lips. “Let’s see if it’s economically feasible,” he replied. “But I will talk to the hospital to ask about reducing my hours.” It was a start. “Our expenditures aren’t as much as they were in London, since we don’t need to pay rent. But even so, I’m not sure if we could still get by on only your paycheck from the lab.” The glint in Sherlock’s eye caught John’s attention, but didn’t know how to interpret it. “You just want to keep me home as a house-husband, don’t you?” he teased, picking up his fork to scoop up another morsel of his meal.
Sherlock blinked very slowly. "Husband?" he asked in a completely neutral tone. Mostly because his brain had stopped working.
“Yeah,” John said in a laughing mood, smiling from ear to ear, his attention focused more on his plate than on Sherlock at the moment. “Like staying home and doing the cleaning and shopping. You’d have to do the cooking, though. This is delicious.” He was taking the whole idea of married life less seriously than Sherlock, even though in John’s mind they were already married, practically speaking. John decided a while back that Sherlock was the only one for him, and that he’d stick with him through thick and thin. Plus, the way the often interacted was just like a married couple, anyway. But he was still working on his anxieties about coming out of the closet publically with his therapist - an actual marriage wasn’t something he’d consider until he felt comfortable, publicly. Sherlock deserved as much.
Husband, Sherlock thought, completely and utterly mystified. It means John's thought about marriage. John's thought about being married to me. He's seriously considered legally binding himself, forever, without reservation, to me, Sherlock Holmes. Was he joking? He must have been joking. No one in their right mind would ever consider something as outlandish and absurd as marrying Sherlock, and yet he'd said it. Spoken the words aloud. The detective had forgotten how to breathe, how to think beyond this one concept, and God help him, he didn't know what to say. So he just ... stared, not quite realizing he'd been silent for a while, trying to process something he'd never allowed himself to contemplate. Other people got married. Other people were wanted. Not Sherlock — never him. How was John even real?
John was nearly finished with his meal when he realized Sherlock had become strangely silent. He peeked up and found the other man staring blankly into space. It was a different look from when Sherlock went into his mind palace - this was something else.
“Sherlock?” No response. “Hey, are you alright, love?” Still nothing. John frowned. “This is starting to scare me.” He was genuinely worried about Sherlock’s health, and for a moment, his eyes darted around, as if the solution to Sherlock’s state was somewhere in the room. John decided to try one last time before he would start treating him for shock - he reached his hand out and placed it on top of his boyfriend’s. “Sherlock?” he spoke the name, calmly but firmly.
It was the touch that finally broke the spell. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes focusing on John again. "So you —" A pause, uncertain, hopeful, but he beat that last feeling down. He couldn't allow it to overtake him. "You've thought of marrying me," Sherlock amended, guarded now. As if he half-expected John to laugh at him, despite the fact that he knew his boyfriend would never, ever mock him. He'd spent too much of his childhood bracing himself for cruelty, to be told by strangers and loved ones alike that he was strange, overbearing, and wrong. John couldn't want to marry him. Sherlock was fine with that. Really, he'd never even considered it in the realm of possibility. But to hear John actually say the word husband. God, did he have to plant this idea in his head? It was torture. It really was. Because now he'd never be able to delete it.
Oh. That response was unexpected. A little flustered by being taken off guard, John’s mouth hung open as he blinked his eyes. “Um. Well… actually… yes,” he confessed, plain and simply. “The thought’s crept up once or twice. I mean, we’re pretty much married as it is, aren’t we?” he added, turning Sherlock’s hand with his own so he could hold it. But what if that’s not what Sherlock had in mind? Was that why he was reacting so strangely? It was sometimes difficult to tell how the detective felt about any given topic. Was Sherlock against the institution? Thought it unnecessary? Was that why he was acting strange? Second guessing himself, John backpedaled, “At least that’s how I’ve felt.”
Sherlock stared down at their clasped hands in absolute wonder, then back up at John's face, trying to find any hint of doubt there. Anything that might indicate he wasn't completely sure about this. But, to Sherlock's immense shock, he was. His boyfriend was being honest. Nothing hidden, nothing uncertain. If anything, John simply seemed uncomfortable with the public aspect of it — and that hardly bothered Sherlock. It had nothing to do with him, anyway, and they were working on it. "I never imagined anyone would want that," he said, a little quieter than before, staring at John with the look he usually had around the man: surprise, curiosity, and a deep, unyielding fondness. "Not with me."
How was John this amazing? He was literally the most unique person Sherlock had ever met in his entire life, and he was so profoundly grateful to know him. To be chosen by him. It made the detective start to smile, just a bit. Tentative still, like he was wary of accepting this too quickly lest it end, but the pleased glint in his eyes was there. John was such an enigma. Sherlock could never predict him, and fuck, he didn't want to.
A sad smile quirked upon John’s face, and he tilted his head downward, “Me neither,” he confessed, in his usual, self-depreciative way. “Maybe that’s… maybe that’s why we were made for each other.” He looked up and Sherlock’s smile was contagious, causing John to similarly smile back. Sherlock had that effect, one which John never experienced with any of the women he’d seen before. The silence between them was broken when John sniffed, then commented, as a matter of fact, “I’m finished eating, if you are?” It was an invitation, reminding Sherlock of his promise before dinner started.
And that — that was what finally changed Sherlock's perspective. Entirely. Such a simple statement, so plain and matter-of-fact, but so incredibly profound. "You're amazing," Sherlock replied, enjoying how the moment lingered and crackled between them like stoking a fire. It burned through him, warm and steady and familiar, made all the more enjoyable when John reminded him of what he'd started.