sh (humanerror) wrote in onewaythreads, @ 2017-07-10 22:45:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, john watson, sherlock holmes |
Who: John Watson & Sherlock Holmes.
What: Irene arrives, Sherlock stress bakes, and the boys attempt to communicate with each other. It ... sort of goes well, but nothing is resolved. Typical.
When: June 28th, early evening.
Where: Their two-bedroom apartment in Ravenmoore.
Warnings: Discussions of ableism and neurodivergence. Some vaguely amorous thoughts. Lots of schmoopiness.
Status: Complete.
Some days, he thinks he sees it — a lingering glance, then a flicker of recognition in John's eyes, but the moment always passes. Even if those moments have come far more frequently now than ever before. Does he know? Could he feel the same? Sherlock never felt this hopeful in his entire life, like he might explode if he doesn't confess everything soon. But every time he works up the courage, something interrupts them; another client arrives in desperate need of help, John pulls a late shift at the clinic, Mycroft texts with some government business, and even a pair of new neighbors arrive with an interesting story and very, very poor timing.
Sherlock knows well enough that fear is the thing preventing him from being honest. That still doesn't make it any easier. For all he knows, John isn't interested in men. Is he really willing to risk their friendship? Something they've only just salvaged?
The only thing he could manage to do properly right now was stress bake. John wouldn't be home for a while yet, and it felt good to try his hand at scones again. With the television running some awful daytime programme that he would occasionally shout things at, Sherlock set himself to the task — and there was something to be said for sinking one's fingers into dough, working it until the right form finally took shape. He made his own jam, too, falling into the process as easily as if he were learning to ride a bike again.
Thankfully, there was plenty of time to bake and clean up before John ever arrived, so he wouldn't know the scones were homemade. Or that Sherlock liked to turn his chemistry knowledge to cooking when the mood happened to strike.
It had been one of those days when John didn’t particularly want to work, Sherlock’s question of why coming to mind throughout his shift. He’d come to Preya for a new beginning, and yet here he was, slipping back into the same London routine, physician at a clinic. It was safe, it was comfortable, it was a steady income, things which he told himself were important and responsible, but if he were perfectly honest with himself, internally everything he rebelled against. At lunch he found himself in the break room, eating a microwaved frozen entree, wistfully scrolling through job listings on his phone.
The only thing he had no regrets doing since arriving was moving in with Sherlock. At first, it was a little awkward, as if they were testing one another to see where they stood, but very quickly they began slipping into the same, comfortable routine around one another that they had just before Sherlock… well… before Sherlock left. As a flatmate Sherlock could still be frustrating, and irritating, and petulant, but after he thought he’d lost him, John didn’t want anything else. Except maybe more. A few times Sherlock caught him staring when he thought he wouldn’t be noticed, a longing to be close, a daydream where he’d be allowed to hold him like he did on the first night they’d met in Preya, but without the heartbreak and drama. But was Sherlock ready for that sort of intimacy? Maybe John was projecting his own feelings, but Sherlock seemed skittish about it. He didn’t want to make a move only to be turned down.
A quick stop to the grocery store after work, and he was on his way home. He came through the door, a reusable shopping bag in hand, and his first response was to call, “Sherlock? Are you home?” It wasn’t just an apartment to John anymore, a place to stay - living with Sherlock was indeed home. He was greeted with a plate of scones on the dining room table, and he automatically picked one up and took a bite. “Hm!” was his comment, enjoying the taste. He was going to have to ask Sherlock which bakery he bought these treats. “I picked up some more milk,” among other things. “And coffee.” Feeling greedy, he stuffed the one scone in his mouth and held it in his teeth so he could pick up a second, then walked over to the kitchen area to put the groceries away.
Sherlock was lounging on a lawn chair out on their shared balcony by the time John got home, plucking away at the strings of his violin. The noises of his best friend puttering around inside instantly relaxed him, and he even smiled a little bit when he heard the doctor's noise of approval after trying a scone. He'd have to bake more often if John enjoyed the fruits of his labor this much. The kitchen itself was blessedly clean (perhaps too much, as if the detective had been using it all day and needed to cover the evidence).
Instead of responding verbally, however, Sherlock continued to pluck out a song he'd composed that first week John moved into Baker Street all that time ago. It was a bright, jaunty little tune, one that he felt perfectly captured his current mood right then: hopeful and happy with just a tinge of longing.
John hadn’t noticed where Sherlock was sitting, but the sound of the violin told him straight away. He was in the middle of unpacking the groceries, putting milk and cheese way in the fridge, when he froze, then inclined his head in the direction of the music, a smile slowly creeping across his face. He’d never heard the song before, but it was safe to assume it was one of Sherlock’s own compositions. For several moments John just stood and listened, then resumed putting the rest of the groceries away in between bites of scone. The kitchen did look cleaner than it had when he left, John noticed that much, but it didn’t really sink in that Sherlock might’ve been the one to clean it; he was busying himself by pouring a glass of cold milk from the carton he’d just bought, and finding a plate to put his second scone upon.
Plate in one hand, milk in another, he went crossed the living room and slid open the screen door to join Sherlock on the terrace. “What have you been up to, today?” he asked while sitting down in a nearby lawn chair. Sometimes he could tell Sherlock never left the house because he didn’t even change out of his dressing gown, but today was not one of those days, so it was harder to guess. Honestly, he didn’t want to work that hard - if he applied himself, he might’ve picked up on clues… fresh baked goods, clean kitchen… but making deductions wasn’t his thing.
Sherlock paused at the inquiry, fingers hovering over the plucked strings until the sound from the instrument faded away. It was an innocent question, and he certainly hadn't been up to much. There was the evidence of his labor, now on a plate, but there was also a more pressing matter that required John's attention. And Sherlock knew his companion wouldn't be pleased to hear about it. "I ... baked," came out of his mouth instead, and he shifted so he could set the violin aside. "It's been some time since I've attempted scones, however. You'll have to make requests." Not what he'd wanted to tell John, but it served as a decent start. Soften the doctor with talk of domesticity first, then ease into the topic of someone the other man strongly disliked later. Maybe? Sherlock didn't know, but his heart was beating faster. Par for the course when living with someone like John Watson.
He snuck a glance at the man, curious to see how he'd react. Surprise? Nervousness? Anger? Sherlock could rarely anticipate him.
“Baked?” His second scone was poised halfway to his mouth when he’d heard this. He paused, looked at the scone, then looked back at Sherlock. “Did you bake this?” he asked, unable to believe his ears. “This is delicious! I thought maybe you went to a bakery. How come you never baked before?” What other hidden talents was Sherlock hiding, John wondered, pleased by the news. “Besides scones, what else do you know how to make?”
"It's simple chemistry," Sherlock said, but he was a bit flustered by John's approval, and very much pleased. It felt like a long time since he'd heard it, and he soaked it up like a cat preening in the sun. "I don't always have time to do it. Or the inclination." He snuck a piece of the scone John had been eating and broke off some for himself. "What do you want me to make?" Sherlock countered, mouth full.
That made sense. After all, baking had a lot to do with the chemical reactions of leavening agents, the mixing of flavors, the precise time spent in the oven. It seemed natural, now that John thought about it. “You’re full of surprises,” he said, approvingly. When Sherlock nicked a bit of his scone, John pulled the plate away in mock offense, but a small smile showed that he wasn’t upset at all. He set the plate down upon the patio table, and then his glass of milk. “I don’t know,” he said, giving it some thought. “Do you know how to make a bakewell tart?” It was something his mother made when he was a child, and the store bought kinds never lived up to the same flavor. “Or jaffa cakes?”
As he mused, he lifted his bum off the chair just enough to dip his hand into the pocket of his trousers and pull out his mobile phone.
Sherlock smirked immediately when John took his plate back, undeterred. They hadn't done this in a long time — at least not since everything fell apart, and it was a singularly euphoric experience to see that spark of amusement in John's eyes again. Sherlock adored the man so much it felt as though his heart might burst at any moment. "Mn?" He realized he'd been smiling dreamily at John and quickly glanced away, reaching for his violin again to give his hands something to fiddle with. "I've made both before. They're fairly simple recipes, but it's the presentation that can be tricky. I ... wouldn't mind baking either again, if you like. That and I've been meaning to try my hand at gingernuts."
Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock noted the appearance of John's mobile phone and chewed on his bottom lip. Tell him now. He has to hear it from you. He heaved a sigh, tossing his head back to watch the smoke from the city rooftops billow up into the darkening sky. Why was this so difficult? "John," he began, slowly, not looking at the doctor. "There's something that I ..."
If Sherlock was making googily eyes at John, he didn’t notice. While Sherlock was speaking, John was multitasking, listening as he opened his online banking to check on his balance. While queueing at the register, paying for the groceries, he was worried that he was cutting it close. He usually kept tally of what he spent so he wouldn’t go over his checking account, and he knew he didn’t have money left until his first paycheck was direct deposited. Fortunately, he must’ve had just enough to cover the costs, and he wanted to make sure what his balance was.
What he saw made him frown with an intense expression, leaning forward in his seat. He didn’t mean to, but he interrupted Sherlock, “What the hell…? This isn’t right!”
She texted him was the first thought that sprang to mind, and Sherlock felt his stomach plummet. You should have said something first. Now look what you've done. He sat up instantly, the violin held almost defensively against his chest while his eyes darted over John, trying desperately to sort through his whirring thoughts in order to manage an explanation. This wasn't going to end well. "I wanted to tell you," Sherlock began, his tone almost pleading. Almost. "I was about to, actually. It only just happened earlier today — I swear, John, I didn't intend to keep you in the dark. Not again."
He realized, belatedly, just how manipulative this all sounded, and the color drained from his face. That was the last thing he wanted to do — pressure John into feeling a certain way. So Sherlock shifted the instrument until it lay across his lap and stared at it, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. Emotions were so taxing. "I know it's difficult to trust me now, given ... everything. I understand if you need time to process this. Truly."
Why was Sherlock being so repentant? It made John feel bad whenever Sherlock acted this way; he saw it as the detective overcompensating for hurting him in the past, afraid he’d lose John’s affection. Yes, he was still hurt by what Sherlock had done to exclude him in his plans and feign suicide, but he still loved the man, and could never think of living without him. John had done it before, when he thought Sherlock was dead, and he was utterly miserable. How much more miserable would he be if they were separated and Sherlock was alive?
Besides, the reason why John was confused didn’t really justify such a strong response.
Giving Sherlock an odd expression, he held out his mobile so the other man could see the screen - his online banking statement. “You added me to your bank account. Why would I be upset about that? We did that before, for convenience sake.” He withdrew his phone to scroll some more. “It actually worked out well, because otherwise I wouldn’t have had the money in my account to pay for the groceries.” He looked at Sherlock to reassure him, “It’s alright. It’s a surprise, but nothing you need to apologize for.”
"......... Oh." Sherlock stared at John, mortified that he'd completely forgotten about combining their bank accounts almost a week ago. In all the confusion of Irene's arrival, this simply hadn't occurred to him. He shifted a little bit, guilty, but there was no hiding it now. If he didn't say something in this moment, there was no telling whether Irene would still beat him to it. And that was worse than having to come clean himself. "That ... isn't what I was referring to, actually. The Woman is here. She just texted me while you were out. I'm not sure how long she's been here, or whether Moriarty knows, but she ... is. Apparently." Sherlock watched John's face carefully for his reaction. Or more like braced himself for it.
There was a notable shift in John’s face as he stared at Sherlock, from understanding and affectionate boyfriend-but-not-quite-boyfriend, to What the fuck you’ve got to be kidding me. He twisted his jaw to convey his displeasure, then ticked his head to one side, still processing. “The Woman,” he repeated in the even tone he used whenever he struggled to keep his temper under control. “Well, that’s just great,” he muttered, turning away and gazing out at the view from their balcony. “We have to deal with Moriarty, and now her.”
Because she’d worked for Moriarty before, John automatically lumped her into the same category. But his displeasure went deeper than straightforward antagonism. Irene was the only person he knew towards whom Sherlock displayed affection, particularly when Sherlock thought she was dead the first time around, going so far as to even compose sad music in her memory. Clearly he was pining, and when she returned, Irene became competition. Now Irene Adler was in Preya, and how could he ever compete with her? Clever. Glamourous. Sexy. While on the other hand, he was just an average bloke.
But if Sherlock wanted to be with her, John wouldn’t stand in the way; his happiness was more important than his own. In John’s mind, he was already defeated, and he asked the inevitable question with remorse, “Are you meeting with her?”
Sherlock watched the change come over John with no small amount of regret. It was like night and day: the light in his friend's eyes dimmed, and he became far more solemn and guarded. He understood perfectly why John might feel this way — in fact, when the doctor expressed his concerns, Sherlock didn't immediately contradict him. Of course someone who had once associated with Moriarty wouldn't meet the approval of a deeply loyal ex-army doctor with a stronger moral compass than most. John was far too good a person to forgive a soul like that, and not for the first time, Sherlock wondered whether the man could ever stand to be in his company if he knew what Sherlock had done in order to stay alive those two years apart. Would he treat him with the same scorn?
"She allied herself with Moriarty once, yes. But she's always been more interested in self-preservation than playing his games. He doesn't like it when his pieces decide to move on their own." Sherlock lounged on the lawn chair again, heaving a sigh. The whole thing was a complicated mess, and now he had to worry about the safety of two people. It was really quite distressing.
At the mention of a meeting, however, Sherlock huffed, annoyed. "Yes. Brunch, on Saturday. We need to know what her next move will be if we're going to plan anything, though I suspect she won't involve herself at all. She believes Moriarty has no idea she's even here." He scoffed, which indicated precisely what he thought of that theory.
Everything Sherlock said about how Irene wasn’t Moriarty’s ally anymore was acknowledged, but John still grimaced. If she was in danger, then wouldn’t contacting Sherlock only bring him into more danger? As far as John was concerned, she was a time bomb ready to explode, with Sherlock the the blast radius. But at the same time, how could he dismiss her when Sherlock was so keen on keeping her close?
John propped his elbow upon the arm of his chair and rested his mouth upon his fist. The sound of brunch made him bristle, and he was always rubbish at hiding his emotions. Nothing he was going to say would make Sherlock change his mind.
“Be careful, okay?” he muttered. He knew Sherlock would, but still the words needed to be said. He’d just gotten Sherlock back from the ‘dead’, he wouldn’t be able to bear losing him a second time. “Is there anything you need me to do?”
Sherlock was surprised by John's offer, given how strongly the doctor felt about Irene (negative though the feelings were), and he took a moment to seriously consider his own answer. What did he need? "I need you to be honest with me," Sherlock said, turning his head so he could watch John carefully. His own gaze was guarded, since this wasn't a topic he'd brought up at all until now, and it made him feel vulnerable. "I've been having ... difficulty ... speaking to Mycroft lately. I'm sure you've noticed. I think he's keeping things from me out of some misguided attempt to protect us, but ... that isn't what I need right now. I need to trust the people close to me — that they aren't off handling Moriarty on their own — and you're the only person I know who won't do that. Despite ... everything I did to you."
He took a breath, reaching over to rest his hand on John's arm rest. "I need you to tell me how you're feeling. Or if you think I'm doing something stupid." That made him smirk a little bit, because they both knew Sherlock did that frequently enough. The smile faded a moment later. "I'm tired of hiding and running. I want to be here with you now. Present. Open."
Initially, John was certain that Sherlock would tell him he didn’t need his help, reinforcing his own negative attitude about himself. In fact, John was mentally bracing himself to be let down. Which was why it took him off guard that Sherlock actually did have something for him. But having told him, John was apprehensive about sharing what he truly thought. For example, Sherlock disapproving of how Mycroft kept information from him was met by John with an intrusive, and thought, Really? Maybe now you know how it feels to be out of the loop?, a scathing commentary on not being included in Sherlock’s plan to fake his suicide. Instead, John held his tongue and only clenched his jaw in response. He knew on a cognitive level that Sherlock was trying, and had promised to do better, but the bitterness was still there, and John hated himself even more for thinking that way.
Sherlock trusted him, and that was inspiring.
John’s eyes darted to where Sherlock kept his hand, then back to his face. “Open,” he repeated, then gave a small nod. “Alright.”
I want to hold your hand. I want to tell you how much you mean to me. John wasn’t ready to be that open, yet. There was one thing he could say. “I’m afraid I’ve come here just to lose you again. Moriarty already has a target plastered on your back, but getting messed up with Irene will only make matters worse.” He sighed. “I appreciate you want to help her, but couldn’t you let Mycroft handle that?”
It was enough. Sherlock exhaled a relieved breath, moving to sit up again so he could face John fully while they talked. He didn't deserve this, but God, he'd fucking take it. This was more honest than they'd ever been with each other, and it felt terrifying, but also good. Very good.
"You're right," Sherlock said, because the doctor was always right — especially when it came to other people and the complexities that got so tangled up around interpersonal relationships. "Associating with her would almost certainly be dangerous for everyone involved. But she doesn't trust Mycroft. I don't blame her, quite honestly, and I'm the one Moriarty is truly interested in. Anyone else he hurts ..." Sherlock glanced down at his hands, unfurling his fingers to stare at the lines on his palms. "They're my responsibility, John. All of them. You tried to tell me that once, when people were dying, and I didn't listen." His gaze flicked up to stare at John again, steady and sure. "I'm listening now."
“No they’re not!” John exclaimed to the high heavens, no longer able to censor himself. “They’re not your responsibility! You can’t just carry that weight, that guilt, upon your shoulders! It’s not healthy. You can only do what you can. You’re swinging to the other side of the extreme! There’s such a thing as balance. It’s painful listening to you talk this way!”
Pausing to rub his temples in exasperation, his own emotions were so high strung that he blurted out, “Do you love her?” His head snapped up to look Sherlock straight in the eyes. “Irene. The Woman. Do you love her?” He needed to know, even though the answer frightened him.
Sherlock watched John's outburst in fascination, surprised and just a little bit turned on by it. He kept himself wound so tight that it was always a delight to see the doctor finally expend some of that pent up energy. John was so expressive, so multi-layered, that even when the man was angry, he was the most beautiful and complex thing Sherlock had ever seen. A surge of desire flashed through him, and for a split second, the detective wanted nothing more than to grab John by the collar to drag him in for a kiss. But he didn't, and that hesitation cost him.
"... what?" His heart was beating so fast by the end of it that Sherlock had to blink several times in order to process what John had even asked him. "Love? Irene? No — absolutely not. Good God." He began to look vaguely ill and increasingly uncomfortable. "What on Earth gave you that idea? Wait, no. Don't tell me. I just ate and I'd rather not be sick, thanks very much."
John might’ve hoped a reaction like this, but he was so insecure that he hadn’t actually expected to hear it, especially the how Sherlock replied, in his very typical drama queen sort of way. He was perplexed. “When you thought she’d been murdered, you were affected in a way I’s never seen before.” And John knew what he was talking about, having lived through the same experience. “You were pining.. You… you even wrote sad music for her!”
Sherlock never composed music for me.
“Then later, you definitely showed off for her, solving the puzzle of the airplane seats. I’d say you were even flirting, and you never do that!”
Sherlock blinked. Slowly. He'd no idea that John actually assumed these things, and it took a moment for him to process it all. But his friend kept going, and Sherlock felt his heart sink. That was what his behavior had seemed like to John? It made him uneasy, wondering what else John thought about him that was completely wrong. "The song you heard me composing was never meant for her," he said, wrinkling his nose at the use of the word 'pining.' "I was upset to hear that she'd died, yes. It would have been an enormous waste of her potential. And don't I show off for everyone? Does that mean I was flirting with Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson? Moriarty?"
This felt like a losing battle, but there was a larger question looming over all this, one that Sherlock realized he’d have to spell out for John. He just hoped the man would believe him. When Sherlock was growing up, his feelings were routinely dismissed and interpreted differently by everyone around him. If even John didn't listen when he finally opened up ... well.
"I admit that I liked her, but it's not in the way you're imagining. I don't ... it's ..." He heaved a sigh, frustrated with himself and scowling now. Why was this so difficult? "You already know I don't make friends. I've never been able to relate to anyone — not as a child, not now. You're patient and understanding, and you want to learn about me, but most people don't bother. She was ... like me. The first person I've ever met who seemed to resemble Mycroft and I. It forced me to realize that there might be others like us, too. That maybe I'm ... human. Somewhat." He was quiet after that, growing increasingly more guarded as the silence stretched between them.
The tension in John’s shoulders eased as Sherlock first told him the song wasn’t for Irene, and how his feelings for her weren’t romantic. It made sense, and now going over his memories, John could see it from Sherlock’s point of view. “So I got myself all worked up over nothing?” How foolish, but at the same time, he was so relieved. He didn’t have to worry about competition.
It was Sherlock’s explanation why he liked Irene that piqued his interest and gave John insight into his friend’s self esteem, or in this case, lack thereof. In the past, Sherlock usually kept himself closely guarded, but John guessed that when Sherlock earlier asked about being present and open, he had included himself.
“Not human? Of course you’re human, Sherlock.” He then disgruntledly conceded, “I know that sometimes … a lot of times… you act different...” his sentence dangled as John began to wonder. His face was deeply sympathetic when he began speaking again, “Sherlock, you often describe yourself as a high-functioning sociopath, and there was a time when I bought into that. But especially now I see how you really don’t fit into that description. I wonder…” this was a little awkward to ask, “... did you ever get tested to see if you were on the autistic scale? That maybe you have Asperger's? Because when you’re talking about others like you, that’s what comes to mind.”
John had considered the possibility that this was the case for quite some time, but had never had the opportunity to bring it up before. Sherlock could be feeling isolated and alone for all this time, seeing himself as different, thinking he was wrong, not realizing that there could be a perfectly good explanation why, without shame, or guilt, or insult. However, no matter what Sherlock said, he did not, and could not see Irene in the same light, and failed to understand just how Sherlock was able to think she was like him.
Why did you get worked up in the first place? Sherlock wanted to ask, but he bit his tongue. John was a man with strong, nearly uncompromising principles. Of course he'd be concerned about the suitability of his closest friend's potential romantic interests. He was a good man — a far better one than Sherlock deserved, certainly, because he'd attempted to intercept all of the women John paraded through their flat without even bothering to be polite about it.
This made it all the more surprising when the doctor insisted that Sherlock was human. He glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, wary when the sentence was left unfinished. Different. That was a kind word for what he was, but then, John was terribly kind to the man who had caused him unimaginable pain.
Sherlock glanced away to look out over their balcony. There was something comforting in the familiar view of a smoky, noisy city at dusk. It was easier to open up if he didn't look at John for a reaction. "My earliest memory is playing a board game with an older woman who smelled like lemon cakes. I visited her a few times — she was kind, and never asked too many questions. I thought she was my friend until Mummy decided I couldn't see her anymore. There were many others after that. More visits to rooms filled with toys and adults who took notes. Mummy never liked any of them. Not one. I always wondered: why do they keep going away? What did I do wrong?" His fingers itched for a cigarette, so he crossed his arms tightly over his chest instead. "I learned later that they were all psychologists. If I was ever formally diagnosed, it was kept from me. I've no idea what I am — but 'sociopath' was suggested often enough that I accepted it. We all learn to wield that which others try to hurt us with, John." It was spoken matter-of-factly, without any trace of self-pity.
John’s protective instinct bristled, and he simultaneously wanted to give Sherlock a great big hug, and somehow find Mrs Holmes to punch her in the teeth. He clenched his jaw, angry on Sherlock’s behalf, coming to his defense. “Sounds like to me that your mother wasn’t happy with the diagnosis and kept changing doctors until she found somebody who gave her a response that she wanted to hear. Which is fucked up, and does nothing to help you, the child! I’m sorry you had to go through that shit.”
Reaching out and placing his hand upon Sherlock’s shoulder, establishing some sort of physical contact to be reassuring, John quickly moistened his lips with his tongue and said, “What they did to you as a kid was heartless, and I’m sure you hurt though right now you’re fighting to hide it. But those labels they slapped on you… you don’t have to let them define you now. It doesn’t define you.” As he spoke, tears started welling up in his eyes, though John didn’t understand on a conscious level why. “Moriarty… he’s a sociopath. He acts without a conscious, but it’s clear to me that you do have one. You express yourself differently, that’s all, and that’s nothing to feel bad about.” John was practically pleading with him, hoping that he was getting his point across, that Sherlock might understand.
Sherlock looked thoroughly surprised by John's impassioned response. Even after all their years spent together, he was still completely flabbergasted any time John defended his honor so ferociously and with such conviction. It was honestly so humbling that the man still cared about Sherlock this much, and hope flared up in him like he hadn't felt in a very long time. John spoke like he knew him — really knew him — and it shook the detective down to his core. Ultimately, though, it was the tears that finally broke his resolve. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath when he realized John was very nearly crying, and his body switched into autopilot, reacting before his brain could catch up with it. He abandoned his own lawn chair in favor of the doctor's, who he then enveloped in a warm, tight embrace.
It was far easier than he'd imagined this being (and he'd fantasized about it a fair bit). All it took was wrapping his arms around John and suddenly they were closer than they'd ever been before, far closer than that time Sherlock had hugged his friend just after the doctor's arrival. This time it felt ... different. Better. Possibly because they were chest to chest now, and Sherlock could tuck his nose in against John's neck and breathe. "I don't know how I managed without you," the detective mumbled, his own voice hoarse with emotion. "But I'm glad I don't have to anymore. You're ... indescribable. Like no one I've ever known. Thank you." It wasn't enough. He wanted to sing John's praises for the rest of his life, shout at everyone on the street about how incredible he was, but for now, this would have to do.
Where had John’s strong emotions come from? A childhood with an alcoholic father who regularly spoke homophobic slurs around a sensitive boy who struggled to understand his identity but only withdrew deeper into his shell out of shame and fear of rejection. John understood what Sherlock must’ve felt , but he hadn’t realized why until later, after some introspection.
Once Sherlock started moving, John wondered whether or not he’d said something to offend his friend to provoke him to leave, but it soon became clear what his intentions were. He welcomed the hug, but at first held him loosely, but tightened his embrace as he slowly gained confidence. He took a deep breath and released a heavy sigh, and with it the weight of his negative emotions and tension. This was perfect; he could go on holding Sherlock forever. “You’re a good man, Sherlock, and I’ll fight anybody who tries to tell you anything different,” John said, but he might as well have been saying, I love you. “Don’t thank me. It’s my pleasure.”
There were so many things about John that Sherlock didn't know. He continued to take up more and more space in the mind palace, one room spilling into another until he'd established himself in an entire wing — and even then, it wasn't enough. The Hug, as it became known henceforth, would be immortalized there too so that Sherlock could revisit the feeling of being held by John whenever he liked. It was an indescribable feeling, like he was cherished, something Sherlock had never felt before in his entire life. That he wasn't a burden or an annoyance, but wanted. Needed.
"I wholeheartedly return the sentiment, John," he replied, voice a low rumble in his chest like the pleased purring of a giant cat. Even after they finally parted, Sherlock continued to lounge on the chair with John, despite being squished into the cramped space next to him. He was reluctant to leave, and enjoyed an early evening of chatting and giggling with his friend about things he'd read on the network. It was ... nice. Good, actually. And he felt closer to John than ever before — and not just physically.