wassoalone (wassoalone) wrote in welcomethreads, @ 2013-08-14 00:40:00 |
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Entry tags: | john watson (bbc), sherlock holmes (bbc) |
WHO: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson.
WHERE: Tower Two, Room #209.
WHEN: Very very early Sunday the 10th.
WHAT: John has a nightmare about Sherlock’s death. Drama ensues.
RATING: PG-13, there’s some PTSD and kissing involved.
STATUS: Complete.
It started out the same. John didn’t know how many times this scenario was played out in his head, but like clockwork, it started with him getting out of the cab. He was dreaming, yet his body tensed, preparing for the inevitable. He jerked a little in bed, as if he was trying to intentionally shake himself out of it, but there was nothing he could do. He felt dread and the phone rang. He let it keep ringing. It echoed in the ears of his subconscious, filling his head, until he had no choice but to answer it. The rest played out like the horror movie it was. Sherlock on the roof, and the cruelest part was how clearly he could see his face now. It was seeing the show. The show made him know the expression, the tears, the wildness of his word and what it meant. Sherlock fell, his coat flapping, and this time when John was knocked over, he wanted to stay on the ground. He didn’t want to come closer. It didn’t change anything he knew it was a fake, because that never mattered in a dream. Instead he was forced to crawl to the body, and no one stopped him. No one was there to take Sherlock’s hand out of his, no doubt intentional if they wanted to sell the act, and he felt sick. Instead it was truly Sherlock, dead and bloody, and all other people were gone. Just the two of them, in a dark void, on an empty street that wasn’t a street, and he pulled his friend into his lap. No, no, no you’re not dead, it was fake, you’re alive. The body didn’t seem to believe him. He ran his fingers along Sherlock’s face, feeling no pulse, no breath, his eyes open and staring blankly forward. No, no, no, come back. Dream John held Sherlock’s broken body tightly and cried, he didn’t care if he was, and he had no idea he was starting to do the same in real life too. And all of a sudden, the body was gone entirely, and he was alone. Alone, alone, alone. John jolted out of bed into a sitting position, yelling Sherlock’s name as he did, and he couldn’t catch his breath. His heart was racing, his skin covered in sweat, and his chest hurt. He’d forgotten there was someone else beside him at all, panicked and oblivious to everything in that moment but the fear in his heart. Sherlock slept rather lightly, all preceding lie-ins notwithstanding. They had taken to sharing the same bed in sporadic intervals that week, seeing as John had allowed him entry the night he returned drunk, and the arrangement rather improved Sherlock’s re-imagined bedroom turned laboratory. In any case, he was there now, eyes blinking open almost immediately by the first twitch he sensed next to him. John. Nightmare. Not surprising for a former army doctor, not in the least—but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy seeing his … considerably more-than-flatmate suffer in the throes of an imagined horror. He pushed up onto his elbows and watched the expressions flit across John’s face, cataloging each one with numeric precision. It was never advisable to induce forced consciousness upon the person sleeping, the risk potentially greater depending on the degree of anxiety. He had to clench his fingernails into his palms to keep from reaching out when the tears surfaced. A tiny, wrinkled head stretched up from the blankets on the floor for a moment, giving a mournful little whine. Sherlock rather agreed with her. He reached for John the moment his flatmate jerked up, shifting carefully to kneel in front of him. “John, look at me. I’m here—I’m alive, I’m here.” No sudden movements, only the gentle, soothing touch of his hands. Sherlock cradled John’s face like he might shatter, thumbs pressed very slightly in against the hinge of his jaw. It was steadying for him, to reassure himself sometimes that they were both there. Alive. Pressure points. His heart was beating as if he’d been the one having the nightmare. “Breathe,” Sherlock said, more a rumble than real speech. “I need you to breathe, John. Will you do that for me?” At first John couldn’t connect with Sherlock being there, his mind slowed and his grasp on reality fragile at best right then. It was easy to imagine this would somehow turn into another nightmare, one disguised as a good dream, only to be destroyed moments later. He experienced night terrors in the past, especially after returning from the war. He barely slept and took medications, but none of it helped. Only working with Sherlock helped his leg and his mind get past the trauma. Except seeing his friend die brought it back, worse than before, since it was nightmare fuel. Witnessing what happened. He struggled at first when Sherlock touched him, but his brain started to catch up and he grasped Sherlock’s arms. His fingers dug in, as if desperately seeking an anchor for sanity. “Sherlock,” he gasped, blue eyes unfocused and pained. His lungs sucked in air and it didn’t seem to be enough. Usually John would be embarrassed about this, later he might well be, but for the moment he clung to his friend. “You were dead. I saw you, you were dead.” It was a lie, he knew it was a lie, but he could still see it. His gut still felt it. That loss was a ghost to him even now. The initial panic was leaving him, but the pain was there. The emotion was left behind. “You left me,” John whispered. He wasn’t angry, anger was what he used as a shield to Sherlock before, it made it easier for a time. And this was always underneath. Sorrow and heartbreak and loneliness. He held on, despite being awake now and knowing it, afraid to let go. “I don’t want to be alone,” he said brokenly, his eyes shutting tightly. Sherlock brought their foreheads together until they found a balance, leaning on each other for support. “This is important, John. I need you to listen to what I’m about to tell you, because I’ll only say it once.” It wasn’t that he minded repeating himself, not as much as he made it out to be such an inconvenience, but this was different. This was dredging up feelings into the light that he couldn’t assign labels, and that—not knowing what his own body was doing, that was the real source of fear. Sherlock couldn’t find answers in those eyes when they were this close, so his hands had to suffice. He cupped the side of John’s neck, trying to breathe without feeling like he was struggling against a tide. Somehow, much to his chagrin, his heartbeat refused to slow down. “Yes. I did leave. But I came back.” The words caught in his throat like a confession. There was something so keenly magnetic about inhaling on John’s exhale, sharing his breath. Sherlock flexed his fingers and resisted distraction, pushing down hundreds of questions without answers, variables without theories. They brought him no closer to any viable conclusion, and here, like this, was closer to home than he’d ever felt in his life. He closed his eyes. “I swear to you, John, I won’t ever allow any of that to happen again. I can’t—” No. Reverse. Amend. “Rather, I don’t want to allow it. He tried to have you taken away because without you,” and he had to swallow, for the love of God, because life wasn’t ever fair and this was a one man war he fought with himself. “Without you, John, the rest doesn’t matter. Do you see? I can’t leave. Not again.” It felt like he’d torn something important out, likely a lung, and tossed it off the docks in a hastily tied garbage bag. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed he wouldn’t have to face the reality of it all. The fact that he’d kept something that close, only to give it away without a thought to how he might learn to breathe again with it gone. John shook his head when Sherlock told him to listen. He was going to, yes, but at the same time he wasn’t fully prepared to believe it. There was just so much that he was confused about. He knew Moriarty was dangerous and wanted to hurt them, and when they were going through that last adventure together, he was aware of how much danger they were in. Yet he never for a moment thought something could happen to them. It was unfathomable to him to think they might not make it out. They made it out of all the others, and their first run in with Moriarty. They were the good guys, and simplistic though it was, John Watson believed the good guys won. Or he’d find a way to make them win. For a soldier, he became something of an optimist, and he was horribly, horribly wrong. “Only because we’re here. It’ll be years before you come back at home.” John knew that Sherlock would. The show wouldn’t exist if he didn’t. Surprisingly, that wasn’t comforting. Because he still knew he’d be going on like that, lost and alone. Not forever. He’d have to move on. Did he want to move on? It was unhealthy to wait forever. “You can’t swear anything, you can’t promise anything.” Anger almost fluttered, and it was brushed aside entirely. He was too tired to be angry. He leaned his forehead into Sherlock’s and outside of his sad words, he was starting to calm down. Breathing again. Raggedly, but there. The more he breathed, the more he was aware of how close they were. John spent a lot of time not thinking about it. He actively refused to think about sleeping together at night, and that sometimes he woke up as close as this to Sherlock. He usually got out of bed quickly and put more distance between them the next night. He was not thinking about when Sherlock’s voice got low and how he felt about Irene Adler, both versions, being near him. His grip on Sherlock’s arms relaxed but his touch stayed. He should move away. Instead, well, instead his heart beat a little faster again. He’d just managed to slow it down, but he wasn’t in full control of his body at the moment. And that was the problem. This is utter madness, he told himself, as he leaned in closer. This is a terrible idea, he said, when he nudged Sherlock’s nose with his own. Well now you’ve gone and done it, John thought when he hesitantly pressed their lips together. It was light. Really just a brush at most. A brush that lingered longer than a few seconds. “I can swear and I can promise.” It would take years. He knew as much even without any awareness of their show, knew that he hadn’t been close to finishing what he’d started before arriving here. The server of excel documents, map graphics, and travel itineraries on his laptop said as much. Sherlock was, essentially, preparing to leave again. At any moment, they might be torn apart and thrust back into the empty reality of a warzone inherited from Moriarty. He hadn’t told John. He couldn’t tell John. And John’s breath was hot against his mouth, suddenly, and he tensed for it without really processing the obvious signs before they were kissing. They had to be, because what else was this? Maybe something else having to do with top priority flatmates that he hadn’t accounted for, or the fact that John was very much not thinking clearly, he was vulnerable, and none of that mattered when Sherlock let himself sway forward. It was laughably easy to give into this, just a little bit, quite against the white noise that might have been buzzing dimly about some wrongness that wasn’t this, here. The Kiss (naturally, it was already capitalized in his head for future inventory) was still chaste, close-mouthed, and gentle with the barest hint of pressure when he tipped his head slightly. He made a noise in the back of his throat, digging his fingernails into soft fabric at those shoulders. Sherlock decided quite magnanimously, in fact, that reason could go to hell for sixty seconds. John tasted like Tetley and blissful, irrational hope. “You’re upset,” he said, or tried to say at least. He was making no concerted effort to move away from John at all, rather more inclined to catch his mouth again. And a third time after that—hesitant, almost, dimly aware of the finite element. Theirs was a friendship of sprawling cities and tight spaces, claustrophobic schisms of double-edged words. He kissed him sweetly, like a goodbye. John thought there was a strong possibility he was completely mad. He didn’t have a better explanation for why he was kissing Sherlock, and it was something he questioned when they started sleeping in the same bed and when he started noticing his reactions to things. It was not before, not the way people thought, but something had shifted between them without question. Maybe it was there and he ignored it. Or maybe he’d gone mad, that was still an option. John did have a moment, just one, when he saw Sherlock for the first time. He hugged him and then punched him. And thought about doing this. It was stray and brief and he ignored it in favor of a punch. That’s why he should’ve gone with anger. Except Sherlock kissed him back, and he was making a noise. This may be a chaste kiss, innocent mostly, but it was mutual. If Sherlock had pulled away and said that, John would take it as a rejection and probably blame it on the dream. Be humiliated and flee with his tail between his legs, but say it was out of his system and move on. Instead he kissed him twice more, and John was flushed. From the emotions and the confusion and who knew what else. “I am upset,” he agreed quietly. There was something very tentative in the way he kissed him again, this time a little longer than the last. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” John admitted. He did know, logically, that he was kissing his best friend in bed and enjoying it. He pulled back to look at Sherlock, and there was still fear in his eyes, but more than that too. An emotion he wasn’t quite ready to define in words. He lifted a hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb moving along one of those sharp cheekbones Irene admired so well. In the dream he pictured it cut and bleeding. The flash of that image in his head set him off, and very suddenly he pulled Sherlock into a real kiss. No hesitation or chastity to it, he wanted the memory of that gone, he wanted to fill his senses with something other than a corpse, and he’d take that fear and turn it into passion. He was upset, but damned if he wasn’t going to kiss the sense out of both of them. You look sad when you think he can't see you. But here it was, sadness reflected back at him in some mockery of his own truths. Sherlock had abandoned ever having to share his own pain by foisting it onto another, terrified of its reception but dismissive of its ultimate destination. Many things scared him, however much he worked to appear otherwise. And now, here, Sherlock had wasted so much energy pushing the responsibility elsewhere, laying the blame with Moriarty—that he overlooked the truth staring back at him with those same, sad eyes. This had been his fault. All of it. When John pulled away, Sherlock felt something in his chest clench. "You say that as if I do," he replied, tone kept carefully neutral to avoid any sharp edges. John was half-awake, clearly confused, and nearing a mode he recognized all too well. He thought he knew. Panic, most likely. This would dismantle many assertions John made about his own character, circumstantial truths taken as fact and worn, appropriately labeled, all throughout his life. Sherlock didn’t hold any illusions as to where he fit in the sort of boxes John kept, rather readying himself for the fall-out. They would part ways and speak of this minimally, circle around the subject until John breached it first, then explain away all the unnecessary details until— John’s thumb was on his cheek. Affection. Indeterminate variable. Sherlock frowned, very slightly, though more in line with the feeling when being presented with new developments in a case. Not for the first time, he couldn’t deduce what John was thinking merely by his searching look and certainly not by his actions. He sucked in a breath half a second before John yanked him down, very still for what felt like too long before Sherlock responded in kind with his own fervor. It was teeth and tongue and too-hot heat, but he didn’t give John an inch, focused solely on the mouth he wanted an architectural floor plan of by the end. He made a noise in the back of his throat like he wasn’t aware of his own raw transparency. If they were crossing this final line, like hell they would cross it together. John’s sadness was endless. He’d wrapped it around himself. Moriarty set up the chessboard and did everything he needed to do to destroy Sherlock. And it was Sherlock who ended it. Destroying John in the process. He could say whatever he wanted, that he did it to save his life, that he had good reasons, and they were all right. It was also true that Sherlock made John watch his best friend commit suicide after hearing the worst possible things on the telephone. It was going to leave scars and nightmares and sadness in John’s eyes. But they were starting again. Apparently in a way neither of them foresaw. “You’re Sherlock Holmes,” John mumbled against his mouth, “you know everything.” And his lips curved into a smile afterward. There was affection, yes, the way he touched Sherlock’s face, and the clear evidence he knew who he was in a compromising position with. He was going to struggle with this choice, for a multitude of reasons, but he couldn’t pretend ignorance. This was him, making the choice. He started it. It was his first time kissing a bloke, and that was confusing enough, but the bloke was a whole different set of problems. All of it added up to him not thinking this through. But fuck it. Where did thinking ever get him? When Sherlock attacked his mouth like that, at first John met him squarely, but after a few moments he started to relax and enjoy it. He let Sherlock take command, he was always following Sherlock’s lead, whether it was running after him in his long coat, or letting him go wild there. His heart was beating fast again, his breath coming in short, but this was much, much better reason for that happening. He let a noise of his own, a moan, and let his hand move from Sherlock’s cheek right into that mess of dark curls. God he’d wanted to do that for longer than he’d wanted to kiss him, just because. They were still sitting up together on the bed, and he considered falling back and taking Sherlock with him, but that was a great deal of suggestiveness all things considered. He hovered in indecision instead. Eventually he broke the kiss, mostly to breathe, but he stayed close. His fingers were tangled in Sherlock’s hair, his skin hot, his pupils dilated, and John bumped their noses together again. “My god,” he whispered, and then laughed. Nervously, giddy, much like he did that first night they had together when they chased the cabbie and came back to the apartment. They’d laughed against the wall, and he found himself drawn to the detective more than anything in the world. “I missed you. I missed us.” What that had to do with them kissing frantically was unknown, but maybe because that was their relationship. Undefinable. Chaotic. Surprising. Endearing. Sherlock’s whole body went rigid the moment he felt fingers in his hair. Could be dangerous. Blind spot. John didn’t—rather, couldn’t possibly know his weakness. He rested his hands on John’s shoulders and gently, ever so slowly eased them a little further apart. That alone had taken an immense effort, even if working against the lump in his throat felt less like control than he would’ve preferred. John was talking, something important, probably, but with fingers in his hair he couldn’t think. The words he missed were carefully boxed up and set aside, favoring the pupils, the heartbeat, and those hands because this was tangible, this impossibility. It would be gone again like blistering hot summers in London, passing through in moments with the coming rain. “Us. Yes, um.” He blinked, slowly, as if he was reminding himself to do it. This was the part where he said something clever. It twinged faintly in the back of his mind, a flicker of comprehension in his peripheral vision before it disappeared again. Sherlock Holmes, who would deny this very truth and take it to his grave, couldn’t, for the life of him, think of anything to say. He grappled with the space between mind and body—struggling for several seconds to come up with anything, literally any subject that wasn’t in some way related to the taste of John’s mouth. Blurting out components of your flatmate(?)’s teeth likely wouldn’t add to the ambience. Rude. Rache. Rachel. Anderson. It was nearly enough to distract him from the fingers in his hair, at least as long so they didn’t move. Petting of any kind would unravel him. They were still sitting up, poised as if waiting for a gun to backfire in an empty warehouse where the only sound was their mingled breathing and occasional, rustling shift. With shaking hands, Sherlock felt the contours of John’s upper arms, his elbows, then wrists—following some unseen path that led to his chest and abdomen. Data, he told himself. He needed more data before he could put into words what this all meant. When Sherlock stiffened, John wasn’t entirely certain if it was for a good or bad reason. This was completely new ground for them. At the moment they were both off their game and in unknown territory, but since he didn’t push John away or grow distant, he decided to take that as a good thing. He kept his hand in Sherlock’s hair and god if it didn’t feel great. He’d always had this strange impulse to brush back his hair or pat him on the head or something involving those dark strands. Now that the rush of passion was easing down and they were taking their time, he relaxed his hand and indulged in doing what he’d thought of before. Running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, smoothing it down, reveling in the simple intimacy. John was distracted too, but he paid attention when Sherlock attempted to say something, and his brain seemed to backfire. It surprised a laugh out of John. “If I knew this is what it took to shut you up, I might’ve done it a long time ago.” Maybe he would’ve. It was hard to say. Right now it seemed like a door was open he’d forcefully shut, and who knew what was hidden in there. It was a relief to see Sherlock as shaken as he was. If his friend was cool and calm and indifferent to this, well, he’d just have to move. So far he’d managed to stay crazy and not panic. He was caught in the moment and wrapped up in Sherlock, and he wasn’t going to think about the morning just yet. John was keeping it together but then Sherlock was moving. His hands seemed everywhere. “Sherlock,” he murmured, still skating on that line between comfortable and uncomfortable. He didn’t stop Sherlock’s exploring, but he was nervous about it. He kissed him again, slowly this time, somewhere between chaste and filthy. He wanted to get a taste in case this was going to be a giant nightmare tomorrow. In fact the thought that this might be the only time they were stupid enough to indulge made him a little braver. He felt like he was an awkward teen again, bumbling his way through, but he broke the kiss only to brush his lips against Sherlock’s cheek. Jawline. His ear. And then his hand tightened in Sherlock’s hair to keep him in place as John gently pressed his lips to Sherlock’s long neck. “It’s not the—” He inhaled, raggedly, leaning his forehead against John’s again as if to steady his own rapidly beating heart. “Not. The exchange of … saliva. More the, uh. Hair. With your hands.” In the morning he might be mortified by his own admission, but there was no avoiding inevitability now. Not when he was dipping his head down further to entice those fingers, huffing out a shaky, wavering breath when their noses bumped together again. One at a time, lights were flicking off in his head. It was very much like being hooked up to a morphine drip, the steady push and pull of sleepy euphoria. He was definitely going to regret this advantage over him. Sherlock's hands slowed when his name was spoken, as if dutifully obeying despite his usual brand of contrariness. Nineteen meters. Alleyway. They were separated by a street, the traffic, and nothing at all. He dragged his hands more lightly along John's sides, settling along his lower back with a careful reverence he rarely showed. Lumbar. Thoracic. Sherlock found himself counting the vertebrae there, middle and forefinger following each bump upward, pressing in even as John's mouth followed a similar path of exploration. John was a study in contrasts, a modern Vitruvian Man. He wanted to open him up and learn everything, see everything, study the beats of his heart over time, how they stuttered more quickly or slowed to a gentle near-stop. But those were abstract thoughts. This was new, so very new to him. He burned with the need to know and yet— He shook when John's mouth found his neck, feeling distinctly like he was being peeled apart by the seams. It was both thrilling and terrifying all at once, to have someone this close, to allow them to see. John had crawled inside him and taken hold of his heart their first time sharing a cab, more tightly than he had any right to, and Sherlock knew he hadn't resisted in the slightest. “John,” he said, a rumble so low he couldn’t tell whether it was meant to be a prayer or a warning. John could take anything. It was already his, and Sherlock tilted his head to offer his neck, closing his eyes. “Oh!” John replied, somewhat surprised that it was the hair, and then an “oh” in a much more intrigued tone. He didn’t have many advantages over Sherlock, so he was getting a kick out of it. The thought he managed to turn the smartest man in London into this was rather attractive to him. He felt powerful. He smiled and kept stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, growing more confident by the moment. “I’ll have to remember that.” He shouldn’t be that surprised, since he was attracted to Sherlock’s hair himself. Of course it felt good on the other side too. He was starting to get images in his head, heated and sexual ones, and they came hand in hand with that discomfort and disconnect. I’m not gay.John thought as Sherlock mapped out his body with his hands. Well I am, look at us both. Irene said, and he hated how right she was. Maybe that’s why he was absolutely certain she wanted Sherlock, despite how the detective disagreed. They had an understanding, Irene and John. This was intimate in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time, perhaps ever. “Are you … are you counting my vertebrae?” John was a doctor and he knew that bumping path. His question was amused, if a little baffled. He felt Sherlock give way to him, practically serve himself up to John like a lamb to the slaughter, and it was amazing. He kissed and licked his way along Sherlock’s exposed neck, and he was documenting it too. Tasting, cataloguing, remembering, although he wasn’t as organized in his head as Sherlock. For him it was something his body would remember even when his mind might forget. Then he heard his name pass Sherlock’s lips and it was a particular sound and it shot fire right through his spine. John felt a wave of undeniable lust, and he wanted him. He wanted to push him onto the bed and strip off his clothes and stay there for the unknown future. They could just live in this room, right? They didn’t have to go anywhere. Who needed the real world anyway? The vivid thoughts going through his mind made him hesitate and then stop. John was right on the edge. Walking a tight rope. He lifted his head and looked at his friend, troubled, his eyes showing a mixture of uncertainty and desire. He kissed Sherlock on the mouth again, as chaste as the first time. “It’s too ….” Much. Intense. Scary. Amazing. “Quick.” That worked. It was quick. Until a few minutes ago they’d been complicated flatmates. Now he was thinking of ripping Sherlock’s clothes off. It was a lot to process. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he repeated, apologetic. "You'll have to delete it," Sherlock said through his teeth, but he didn't mean it. Not really. It would be counterintuitive to this live-wire feeling should the petting be discontinued. And then John was asking him a question. Probably. It took several seconds for Sherlock to put meaning to the words, much less catch his breath. "Obvious," he ground out, each vowel given precedence. If he kept leaning into those hands, logically, they wouldn’t stop their exploration. But Sherlock’s fingers hesitated for just a moment, pressing in against his thirteenth vertebrae. Citations needed. John couldn't read his mind, and unlike how he felt about the vast majority of the human populace, he would have to make an effort to clarify himself more often. At least here, in bed. No matter how terrifying that felt. “I—wanted.” He stopped, starting again. “I’ve always wanted to touch you.” It took longer than he would've liked to force the words out, contending with a lifetime lost in a world of social hieroglyphics he couldn't translate. Sherlock clenched his hands, fingers digging in for a moment before he forced them to relax. He felt flayed, like he’d come apart too quickly and didn’t know how to put the pieces together again, too raw and more open than he’d ever been with anyone. It wasn’t a good feeling. But it wasn’t bad, either. And maybe he was doing something right—maybe John hadn’t left yet because he wanted to be here, with him, and couldn’t stand to be anywhere else. Sherlock bared his throat, shivering, and he almost didn't catch the fleeting, coiled tension in John's body that raised the first flag. This was more than crossing their own self-made boundary, this was storming enemy lines. He could hear his own heart beating in his ears, and Sherlock dragged his nails up John's spine, fully committed to offering anything he might ask. Quick. Adjective. Moving fast or doing something in a short period of time. Sherlock stilled completely. He didn’t move for three slow breaths before he eased his hands away from John, one at a time, moving to get off the bed. Distance. Noun. An amount of space between two things or people. "You should sleep," he said, surprising himself with the complete calm in his tone. This was what Sherlock did. He packed up feelings and shipped them away for a few months until they came back, unexpectedly, needing to be unpackaged and re-labeled again because he'd forgotten what they were for. He could do the same with John. There would just be more boxes this time. Sherlock whistled and Arya skittered to attention, though the gesture was ruined by the way she swayed on her lumpy little feet, fighting off fatigue. It would be dawn soon. They could make it to the beach before the light. When Sherlock had a task to focus on, it made the weight of being alone easier to manage. You're me, he'd said. Sometimes, when cases went cold and his mind went quiet, Sherlock knew Moriarty had been right about something. “Sherlock, no, I don’t want to ….” John might not be as good as Sherlock at reading people, but he knew emotions, and he knew when he saw his friend shut down. After he said he always wanted John to touch him, and there was John, backing away because it was … what? Challenging his accepted truth of who he was? Some latent homophobia lingering on him he wasn’t aware of? He didn’t know for sure, but he did know that it broke his heart to see Sherlock go from passionate and confessional to this. “Wait, no, listen.” Listen to what, he didn’t know, but he knew he couldn’t let him leave this way. John got to his feet and stood between Sherlock and the door, putting out a hand in warning for him to stay where he was. “I’m sorry, okay. I didn’t mean stop for good, just … it’s a lot, all right?” He was cutting around sentences and stuttering at the wrong times, because his mind could not keep up with what his heart was saying. He really didn’t want to have super serious conversations in boxers, but too late for that. “Do you have any idea ….” He stopped and started again, closing his eyes to try and force at least one bloody thought through to the end. “I’ve been straight my whole life, Sherlock, I’ve never wanted a man and I was five minutes away from ….” He waved wildly at the bed. It got the general idea across. If he went further in that direction, he’d probably embarrass himself more, since the boxers already left very little to the imagination at the moment. Flushed and feeling immeasurable awkward, John rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I meant too quick as in I needed a little time to figure this out. Not that I didn’t want … you know I do.” He was just in a very passionate embrace with him only moments before, Sherlock had to know that the want was there. “Please don’t shut down. I didn’t mean to hurt you. How am I supposed to say that I don’t think I’m ready to have sex with a man yet without it hurting you?” John hesitated after he blurted that part and his shoulders tensed up. God someone just kill him now. “Suppose … that … works.” The floor could swallow him up any time now. He’d appreciate that. Frustrated, he gave up and sat back down on the side of the bed. He couldn’t stand there in Sherlock’s way, being confused and a right prat. “Sorry, okay?” Sherlock, being the enormous dick that he was, didn’t so much as blink throughout that entire, albeit stuttered speech. It was easy, keeping masks. He had one stored away for almost every occasion, this one in particular being carefully, coolly neutral. What he hadn’t accounted for was the fact that John had already picked up a talent for reading him in ways that most couldn’t. That meant he could tell how utterly, emphatically lost he felt. Sherlock had known, however intermittently, that John would require space enough to reassess his own identity were this to happen. But he hadn’t thought that his own face could betray him like it did, that John could even know he was putting up walls before he realized it himself. It made him uncomfortable. Flustered was likely more accurate, though that just made him feel like a maiden aunt. He glanced away, only to sharply glance back when John mentioned having sex. Already? Wrong. That would completely rule out two-thirds of the former girlfriends if that were the case with first dates. Much less flatmates, which, at least from his general experience, didn’t necessarily mean they could skip social steps. Oh god, would he have to take John out on a date? He attempted willing patience into raw firmament. But John was winding down from his high now, and Sherlock tilted his head to look at him, feeling something impossible to describe but very, very warm unfold in his chest like a flower. Or the effect of combining sensitizer with fluorophor, whichever. "John." His mouth finally, finally broke with the tiniest hint of a smirk. "As charming as this display is, you're being a colossal idiot." There came a squeaky little growl from the floor, and Sherlock glanced down, offering Arya such a look that she stopped fussing. They stared at each other for a minute. Maybe two. Then, he bent to scoop her up. "Go to sleep," he said, repetitive, but necessary if John was to gather any illusion of normalcy after this. Arya wriggled until he tucked her against his chest, fingers absently scratching behind her ears. "I expect you'll find the practice marginally easier without me present." There was a lilt to his voice that usually arose when he was teasing, but one couldn’t be sure. The suggestion itself, of course, said nothing of the fact that Sherlock had given up all pretense of attempting to sleep, himself. After this? Not likely. To his credit, he hovered on the threshold for a minute, half in the bedroom and half out. He still didn't know where they would ultimately end up, or whether this, being together even just once, would finally be the last John could stand before he'd had enough. Some things were immovable though, others unstoppable. He just had to put his faith in physics and ignore the painfully tangible, realistic fear. Sherlock might lose John. Nothing was worth that. And okay, so he wanted to kiss him again. Inconvenient. Sherlock could put on whatever mask he wanted now, although it was a bit infuriating. John knew better. He saw his face when they were together, felt his body surrender, witnessed a vulnerability he didn’t think Sherlock Holmes was even capable of. He was flattered of course, but also concerned. Maybe even protective. Which was silly since he felt obliged to protect Sherlock from himself of all people. John hurt him, and he knew that. With the physical barrier between them broken, he felt the impulse to comfort him, and good lord that was a big change right there. The slightest hint of a smile and amusement from Sherlock made him feel deeply relieved. It meant there was a way to salvage this, once he worked out a few things in his head. He still wasn’t convinced that they were well suited to a relationship, it wasn’t just the man part that was a problem, and he wasn’t certain if that was something Sherlock would be interested in. His mind felt so full of thoughts and anxieties, he just snorted in disbelief when Sherlock suggested he sleep. Right. After this, sleep was going to come easily. He could only be so lucky. He ran both hands through his own hair and over his face, and looked up to see Sherlock lingering in the doorway. John felt something drop in his stomach and was suddenly deeply afraid that he crossed a boundary, and Sherlock would want to leave for good. He got him back, but did he fuck it all up? He had a crippling fear of being abandoned again, and he swallowed hard to try and push that aside. Sherlock swore he wouldn’t leave John. He believed him. “Goodnight. We’ll talk about this in the morning.” He wasn’t wrong they might need a little space, and John did ask for time. He wouldn’t leave his friend hanging for too long, not when he deserved better. “After tea,” he agreed, grimly serious. It wouldn’t be for his benefit, but for John’s. They both knew he was useless before a proper cup and far better after a second, toast and jam notwithstanding. Sherlock’s gaze swept over the tangled sheets, evidence of their transgression and likelihood of success dwindling with every second that passed. He knew an impossibility when he saw one. But whether or not it would backfire in the end—that was the real test, wasn’t it? To see how it all amounted to something when you spread out the paperwork and considered the case as a whole. Stiffening slightly, he left, closing the door with surprising caution even if courtesy was rendered largely moot now. In the half-light of their common area, it felt almost absurdly normal. As if nothing had just overturned his worldview and potentially destroyed any amount of happiness he wouldn’t allow himself to consider. Shoes. Jacket. Cell phone. Arya stirred from the folds of his coat and whimpered at the first brush of cold air when they stepped foot outside. Surely, she would adjust. They all would. |