Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’d been five months since John had moved into 221B with Sherlock, and so far the lanky git hadn’t done anything truly awful. Sure, there was the whole nearly-getting-John-killed thing, and Sherlock’s utter disregard for regular sleeping hours, other humans, and John’s job, but those were all fairly easy to deal with. After all, John had been in the army, and life with Sherlock was just as hectic and dangerous, if not more. At this point, he felt as though he could deal with anything life could throw at him.

That is, until he came home from a long day at work, trudged up the stairs - barely noticing the suspiciously flatmate-free living room – and entered his room for a nice long sleep...to find Sherlock, clad in lab-coat and eye protection goggles, standing over the charred remains of John’s bed. John closed his eyes, not wanting it to be true. He opened them. The bed was still burnt to a crisp. For fuck's sake.

“Ah, John. You may be wondering-” Sherlock began to explain the mess, but John interrupted.

“What. The. Fuck. Sherlock.” he ground out, weary of his flatmate's antics.

“I was merely trying to ascertain how various household items react to fires started with industrial chemicals and I thought it best to try it in situ, as it were.”

“Why didn’t you try it in your own bloody bed then?”

“I didn’t want to destroy my bed if the experiment went awry.”

John glared at Sherlock.

“So my bed’s alright for firewood, but yours is too good to be experimented on?” he spat, more irate than ever.

“Come on now John, I thought you were interested in my experiments. Besides, I’ve already ordered you a new one. It should arrive tomorrow.”

“And where am I going to sleep tonight?”

Sherlock blinked. He obviously hadn’t thought of that. John sighed.

“Whatever, Sherlock. I’m too tired for this. I’ll yell at you in the morning and crash on the sofa tonight.”

John turned to head back down to the living room in order to catch forty blissful winks, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“John, wait. You can have my bed tonight.”

“And where are you going to sleep then? You’ve actually been sleeping at normal times for the past few days, I’m not about to muck that up.”

“I’ll take the sofa. I will be perfectly comfortable there.”

“Says the man who complains about the sofa being too small to even sit on properly. You take the bed.”

“John. This mess is my fault. Take my bed.”

John huffed in annoyance. It was no use. They were both stubborn as mules, and it was obvious that neither of them would back down. Besides which, at this point he was so tired he could sleep on the floor and be happy.

“We’ll share it.” He snapped, still annoyed about the fact that his git of a flatmate was keeping him from the soft slumber he was craving right now.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John rolled his tired eyes and snatched up his pyjamas from the slightly sooty nightstand.

“C’mon you git, I’m about to pass out.”

He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and started pulling him downstairs, towards the bed that wasn’t completely incinerated.

***

Once they had both brushed their teeth and changed into their pyjamas - silk pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt for Sherlock, cotton bottoms and a vest for John - John found himself standing in his flatmate’s room, feeling rather awkward and self-conscious for no apparent reason. He’d shared beds with his friends before, in the army and, before that, back in his uni days when he’d partied too hard and couldn’t make it home.

This was different though. This was Sherlock.

This was the man who had saved his life, who wore expensive suits and could put the world’s best detectives to shame before he'd had his breakfast.

This…was awkward.

To take his mind off it, he started looking around Sherlock’s room. He’d never been in here before, only seen glimpses of it when Sherlock had left his door open and John had just happened to walk past. He had a few minutes now to look around, while he waited for Sherlock to clear away whatever caustic chemicals he had used to destroy John’s chance of a good night’s sleep.

He didn’t know what to expect really. There were scientific posters on the walls (unsurprising), a few pictures of famous criminals (creepy, but not unlikely), bookcases crammed with what seemed to be scientific journals and rare copies of old books, a faint smell of sweat and decomposition, and, of course, the bed.

The bed that he was going to sleep in.

With Sherlock.

John still felt uneasy, but he heard Sherlock’s footsteps getting closer. He clambered into the bed, settling on his side facing away from the door as it opened and Sherlock entered.

“John?” Sherlock whispered, seeming to think he was already asleep.

“I’m still angry. Get into bed.” John growled, his stomach churning as he felt the mattress dip next to him. Sherlock sighed worryingly close to him.

“John-”

“Goodnight Sherlock.” John pulled the duvet tight around his shoulders and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the tension pressing on his chest.

He heard Sherlock pause, then sigh.

“Goodnight John.”

Relaxing slightly, John listened to Sherlock's slow breathing next to him and the steady flow of London traffic outside until he slipped easily into his long-awaited sleep.

Chapter Text

It had been a long, long day in Herefordshire. Sherlock had deduced a serial killer’s identity by matching mud samples from the victim’s shoes, just as John had been in a grimy basement five miles away, tackling said killer as the next victim cowered in the corner. After the usual rigmarole with Sherlock wrangling the local police and John making a witness statement, the criminal was arrested, Sherlock had a good gloat, and as the adrenaline slowly ebbed the tiredness of being awake for over 35 hours straight hit John like a runaway train. Unfortunately, this being the back end of nowhere, he was miles away from his nice, new bed, and Sherlock didn’t seem to be too worried about anything except filling him in on what he’d missed while he was off staking out the killer’s hiding place.

“-so then, of course, I knew that those particular seeds were rare in this region, and that plant could only be maintained by- John? Are you alright?”

“Hmm? Yeah, just- just tired…” John murmured, swaying slightly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Really, John, you ought to have said earlier. There’s a quaint little bed and breakfast in the village we passed on our way here. We’ll go there and see if they have any rooms free. Do try not to pass out on the way.”

At the promise of sleep, John managed to bring himself to trudge to their rental car. Sherlock opened the door for him after watching him fumble with the handle for more than ten seconds, then hopped into the driver’s seat and started navigating through the country lanes, the only sound the turning of the wheels and the obnoxious snoring from the passenger seat.

***

“John… John. John!”

John batted Sherlock off him, shooting him a glare for the vigorous shaking he'd woken up to. He sat up and blearily looked around. Where was he anyway? Before he had time to get his bearings, Sherlock pulled him out of the car and towards a little Tudor-style house that had a sign proclaiming it was an “OTEL.” He shook his head to clear some of the fuzziness that comes from getting half an hour’s bumpy sleep in a car. The inside of the ‘OTEL' seemed nice, not that he saw much as Sherlock briefly nodded to a young, bored looking receptionist, unlocked a door, and unceremoniously shoved John through it.

“Get ready for bed, John, I apparently have to park the car somewhere other than these stupidly narrow country roads.” With that, Sherlock flicked on the light, shot John a quick grin, and slammed the door on his way out.

Too exhausted to properly scope out the room, John was only vaguely aware of a general theme of charity-shop-catered-to-old-women as he made a beeline to the door that read "bathroom" in flowery script. After emptying his bladder, stripping down to his pants and vest, and forgoing scrubbing his teeth with a finger and the provided toothpaste at the hideous avocado-green sink, he wandered back out into the main room just as Sherlock re-entered. It was then that John clocked the bed.

Bed…singular.

He nearly groaned. Not again! Last time had been so awkward, especially when he’d woken up to find Sherlock long gone and had inexplicably felt like a one-night stand who’d just been ditched. He looked despairingly at Sherlock. 

“It was the only room left, John. Nothing I could do." Sherlock shrugged off his coat and hung it by the door. "I don’t need to sleep anyway. You can have it.”

He toed off his shoes and headed towards one of the two overstuffed floral armchairs that stood by the lace-smothered window as John frowned.

“Sherlock, you've hardly slept in almost a fortnight, what with this case, the jewel smugglers, and that whole kidnapping thing. Don't be an idiot. Come and sleep with me.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. John mentally winced at the double entendre.

“I mean- Just come and get some sleep you daft git, you need it.” He said, sinking onto the bed and yawning. He got under the covers and watched as Sherlock rolled his eyes and followed his order to get ready for bed. He was pleasantly close to the land of nod when Sherlock finally slipped under the covers next to him, turning off the overhead light and switching on the bedside lamp that looked as though it had been made from a cannibalised carpet bag. Suddenly, John felt that tension creeping back up on him. He wasn’t sure what it was, only that the unexpected mood lighting really wasn't helping.

“So how did you say you figured out the next victim?” he asked, trying to diffuse the knot in his stomach.

Sherlock glanced at him, his expression unreadable in the low light. “Well, it was obvious once I’d figured out that the second victim was chosen at random. Then, the connections between the others became clear…”

Sherlock droned on and John found himself relaxing. This was fine, wasn’t it? They’d had conversations like this hundreds of times over the six-odd months they’d known each other. It was normal by now for them to stay up late reliving the grisly details of a case. And it wasn't like any of the times he’d shared a bed with a woman or anything. That was usually purely physical, and he didn't want to shag Sherlock, did he? They were just good friends. The weird feeling was probably just the effect of him coming down from an adrenaline high straight into exhaustion. John turned onto his side to face Sherlock as he prattled on about the case. The dim lighting highlighted his sharp cheekbones and shiny curls, and John smiled sleepily as he let Sherlock’s warm, deep voice wash over him. He could faintly smell Sherlock’s personal scent, and when he turned to face him too John could smell the toothpaste on his breath.

Their faces were inches apart now, and Sherlock’s bright eyes stared intensely into John’s half-open ones as he related some more vivid details of the case. John’s vision dimmed slightly as another wave of tiredness washed over him, and he found himself absent-mindedly thinking how nice it would be to snuggle closer to the warm body next to him. Quickly, his subconcious took over and he scooched over to tuck his face into Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock froze.

“…John?”

No answer came, only a faint snore. Sherlock blinked bemusedly, unused to this closeness to John. He'd only shared a bed with someone on a few occasions, and that someone had usually been Mycroft at Christmas when they were younger, squashed into a single bed in a distant family member's spare bedroom. Of course, the difference here was that he actually liked John, and although Sherlock would have given Mycroft a swift elbow to the ribs if he'd invaded his personal space like this, he decided he rather liked this closeness to John. After a second’s thought on what to do, he dropped a gentle kiss to John’s forehead like Mummy used to do to him, pulled the duvet up to cover them both, and turned out the light.

***

John woke up late the next afternoon, head resting pleasantly on someone’s shoulder. He lay there for a second, feeling the warmth of the body next to him and the tightness with which whoever-it-was was holding him before remembering who, where, and what it was, although not why, when, or how. He opened his eyes a crack to see Sherlock, fast asleep and curled around him. Not wanting to wake his sleeping flat-and-now-apparently-bed-mate, John courteously kept still as his mind panicked like a captured pigeon with a rigid view of its own heterosexuality. He remembered last night, listening to Sherlock as he explained the ins and outs of rural borrowing laws and the lineage of a farmer’s dog, and he remembered…

What?

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh God. What had he done!? Obviously, Sherlock hadn’t taken offence and leapt out of bed, but what if he thought John had feelings for him? He’d said he wasn’t interested in that sort of thing, and John wasn’t either, he wasn’t! He had a healthy respect for Sherlock, that’s true, and he felt even closer to him than he had to his best friends in the army, but he wasn’t…interested…like that. He would have to straighten this out with Sherlock when he woke up.

Looking up at Sherlock again though, he guessed they didn’t have to talk about it. As he gazed at Sherlock’s plush lips, slightly parted in his sleep, John reasoned that if Sherlock had a problem with this, he would have spent the night in the armchair.

Besides, it wasn’t like they hadn’t shared a bed before, and nothing had changed since. They’d just ignored it and got on with their lives. So, John thought, his eyes slowly taking in the man in question’s slumbering face, he’d act like nothing unusual was happening and let Sherlock take it from there.

That should work, right?

Chapter Text

It had been a week since they’d returned from Herefordshire, and they hadn’t had any rest since then. They’d finally gotten back to their flat to find Mycroft, ready and waiting with a case and a way of blackmailing Sherlock into taking it. Said case had taken them all over London in search of clues, and had now left them staking out a row of large abandoned warehouses which Sherlock was convinced wanted blackmailer Eduardo Lucas and his stolen goods was hiding in.

John, however, did not care how close they were to capturing Lucas. They had been in this cold, dark alley for hours, and Sherlock had effectively told him to stand here and do nothing. With nought but the falling snow to divert him, he’d been trying not to think about his over-friendliness with Sherlock the week before. He’d now become hyper aware of every touch, gaze, and smile Sherlock threw his way, unsure of how he felt towards him, and it was keeping him irritable and on edge. He glared at the man in question, stomping his feet to stay warm as Sherlock kept watch from the mouth of the alley.

“John,” Sherlock whispered urgently, reaching back to grab John’s arm. John stepped back out of reach and whispered back.

“What is it?”

“Someone’s coming!”

“Is it him?”

“I can’t tell. It’s too dark.”

“What should we do?” The alley was a dead end, and they both realised they wouldn’t be able to get out of it without blowing their cover. John could hear footsteps crunching in the snow, getting closer by the second.

“Fuck.” He whispered, an idea popping into his head. It was a terrible, terrible idea, but there was no time to waste. He grabbed Sherlock’s scarf, pulling him forward as he tilted his head upward and crushed his lips against Sherlock’s. Sherlock seemed to understand instantly, putting his hands on the wall either side of John and pressing in as the footsteps drew near. There was a slight scuffle as the approaching person slipped on the snow at the mouth of the alley, but John scarcely heard it over the sound of his own heartbeat. He couldn’t really think about anything other than Sherlock’s lips, which were moving gently against his.

The footsteps receded, and after a second Sherlock pulled away to see who it was, his expression obscured by the dim lighting. John bit his lip, thankful that the darkness concealed his blush as he realised his pants were a little tighter after that bit of ‘acting’.

He didn’t have much time to dwell on it, though, as Sherlock turned to him, grabbing his hand and pulling him out onto the street.

“It was him,” Sherlock confirmed, in a low voice. “Your deception worked. If he saw us, he must have thought we were a couple, so we’d better keep up the act for now.” His grip on John’s hand tightened. “Alright?”

John nodded, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead and dreading making eye contact with Sherlock ever again.

They followed him for a few minutes, making sure to vary their pace and stop at various places so they didn’t rouse Lucas’ suspicion. Eventually, he stopped outside a restaurant, seeming to check around him before darting in. Sherlock and John, who had pulled back as he had slowed down, stopped and turned to each other.

“What now?” huffed John, trying not to let his teeth chatter.

“We should follow him in. Try and get near him. I think he’s either meeting someone in there or is using his presence as a signal to a compatriot that he’s ready to give them the stuff.”

“Alright. Are we going in now then?”

“Yes. Although,” Sherlock hesitated for the briefest of moments, “we should probably pretend to be a couple still, in case he recognises us from the alley.”

John nodded, silently cursing himself for ever thinking up that hare-brained plan. Sherlock tightened his hand around John’s again.

“Once we capture him it’ll all be over. Ready, John?”

John sighed. “Yep.”

They pushed off towards the restaurant, hand in hand.

***

It had been half an hour since they arrived at the restaurant and luckily, they’d managed to get a booth right next to their man. Sherlock had been surreptitiously watching him, while John had torn his way through a starter and was waiting impatiently for his main course. He hadn’t eaten since 12 and it was nearing 9pm now, so he could hardly keep his mind on the case at all. He was eyeing another table’s full plates when Sherlock suddenly reached out and grabbed his hands, pulling him close over the small table. John tore his eyes from the food to stare questioningly at him.

“Act like I said something hilarious.” Sherlock whispered. John hardly thought in obeying him, cracking a huge grin and laughing as Sherlock watched their mark walk past. He squeezed John’s hands faux-affectionately as he spoke in a low voice.

“I think he’s making a move, John.”

“What’s the plan?”

Sherlock’s eyes strayed to where their man was heading, not in the direction of the front door, but towards the kitchen.

“Follow me!” He ordered, leaping up and tugging John after him. He let go of John’s hands as he hastened towards the kitchen door, which was just swinging shut behind Lucas. They sprinted across the room and Sherlock flung open the door only to lock eyes with his quarry. A split second passed, and Lucas turned, sweeping a set of pans to the floor as he raced towards the fire exit.

“John, go round the front!” Sherlock bellowed as he gave chase. John did as he was told, racing back around to the front of the restaurant in time to see Lucas emerge hastily from a nearby alley, Sherlock hot on his heels. He raced after them, cursing the slippery snow that was piled up against the buildings and halving the usable pavement.

Lucas himself was a slippery customer. He dodged down alleys, across a park or two, and managed to run through the foyer of a hotel before they finally caught up to him. They almost lost him after that, but John managed to take a shortcut through another building and headed him off, tackling him to the ground as Sherlock skidded to a halt next to them. Panting, John restrained him as Sherlock searched him for the top-secret blackmail material Mycroft wanted, pocketing it quickly as he triumphantly texted Lestrade to come and make the arrest.

20 minutes later, after ensuring Lucas was safely restrained and waving off Lestrade’s requests for statements and the like, they found themselves walking back towards home together.

“Nice tackle, John,” Sherlock said, noticing his friend’s stony demeanour.

“Thanks.” John muttered. The adrenaline had all but worn off now, and he was colder and more tired than ever. His stomach let out a loud grumble.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“There’s a good restaurant near here,” Sherlock offered, “It’s open late. Shall we finish our meal in peace?”

John grunted in consent. Sherlock took his hand as if it were natural and guided him in the direction of said warm meal. He managed to get them seated quickly and ordered a bottle of wine to tide his friend over until his food came. He himself ordered a small meal, knowing John would try to force him to eat anyway now that they weren’t on a case. As they waited, he decided to strike up a conversation to distract John from his gnawing hunger.

“That was a good idea of yours,” he said, successfully catching John’s attention. “Earlier, I mean. In the alley.”

John stared at him for a second, no doubt trying to remember what he was referring to. In fact, John had been thinking about exactly that since they had caught Lucas and he’d been able to relax. He had to stop himself from visibly tensing up as Sherlock mentioned it, feeling a blush start to creep its way onto his face again.

“Uh, thanks.” He shot Sherlock a strained smile. I’ve never seen John this hungry, thought Sherlock, noticing his tenseness and fidgeting fingers.

“I, uh, didn’t mean to assume- that is, I mean-” John grimaced at his ineloquence. “I’ve done that before. In college. One time.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock, nodding slightly. “Were you being pursued then as well?”

“I guess so. I mean, he was the one who initiated it.”

“Ah.” Sherlock realised what John meant.

“I’ve kissed guys before, I mean, I- what I mean is I’m sorry if you don’t do kissing or, uh…” He trailed off.

“It wasn’t my first kiss, John. I did have a boyfriend in Uni, when everyone said I should have a partner. We kissed and so on, but he was just using me as a trophy.”

“Well, I mean, I can see that. You are gorgeous.” John said, the compliment passing his lips before he could censor himself. His blush crept slightly further onto his face as Sherlock seemed to zone out for a second.

“…thanks.” Sherlock said. They both looked away, embarrassed. John took a large gulp of wine, then finished the glass and poured another.

“So, uh, you’re- you like guys then?” he asked.

“Yes. Although I have very little patience for romance.”

“You? Mr Sherlock drama-is-my-middle-name Holmes? I bet you’d love someone fawning over you, listening to your every word, giving you gifts and stuff.”

Sherlock stared at him for a second.

“But you do all that for me.”

“Yeah, but that’s different. We’re friends.”

Sherlock stared at him for another second. John took another swig of wine, trying not to think of the kiss, or the cuddling, or the hand holding. It wasn’t like that! They were just good friends! For fuck’s sake!

Their meals arrived just in time to stop the silence turning awkward again, and John dug in, trying to hide the slight crisis that this topic of conversation had caused in his little definitely-not-into-Sherlock world. Sherlock daintily chewed through his ratatouille and sipped at his wine as John tried to fill his empty belly as quickly as possible. All he wanted was to be full, asleep, or drunk right now, and he was working hard on the first and last on his list. By the time they had finished dessert, he’d had about four glasses and was feeling more than tipsy. Sherlock had had two and a half, and was clearly a giggly drunk, as he had struck up a conversation with John again and was sharing embarrassing secrets about the other restaurant-goers with John in a very loud whisper, making John snort and giggle with him. It was nearing eleven when they finally left, Sherlock skipping down the street clutching John’s hand as he stumbled along behind him.

Eventually, they made their way back to Baker Street, Sherlock shushing John loudly as he struggled with the front door, and John shushing him back as they clumped up the stairs together, still holding hands. Once they were safely and loudly ensconced in their flat, John turned and grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his coat, suddenly looking as serious as he could while completely legless. Sherlock stifled his hysterical giggles as he realised John was about to say something. John himself didn’t quite seem to realise this, so it took him a few moments.

“Sh’lock,” He hiccupped, “Yer- yer my best friend. Am so glad I met you.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise. “Your best friend?”

“Yeahhh.” John slurred. Without thinking, he leaned in, pulling Sherlock in and puckering up for a repeat of earlier. Sherlock, a bit too far gone to notice this, put his arms around John, enveloping him in a tight, passionate hug. John, face buried in Sherlock’s snow-soaked coat, relaxed into it for a few seconds before nodding off, letting all his weight slump against his hug-mate. Sherlock staggered backwards under the unexpected extra weight, landing with a thud on the sofa.

“Jawn?” He murmured, shaking him slightly. John grunted, the long day and alcohol keeping him from even semi-consciousness. Sherlock sighed and let his head fall back against the headrest, succumbing to sleep in a matter of minutes as well.

***

They were still there the next morning when Mrs Hudson came to bring them their breakfast cuppa, Sherlock stroking John’s hair as John snoozed on top of him. She raised an eyebrow as Sherlock held a finger to his lips accusatively, and left the tea-tray on the table, smiling to herself as she crept back out. Honestly, she thought to herself, those boys!

Chapter Text

Fuck, Sherlock thought, struggling for breath as the arm around his neck tightened. He could hardly see anything in this dingy basement apart from the spots dancing across his vision. No wonder he had misjudged where this bastard had been hiding. He managed to grab a gasp of air as the door burst open and he was yanked in front of his assailant, only to find himself suddenly staring down the barrel of a familiar gun. John!

“Stay back!” Sherlock’s captor barked. He could see a hint of fear in John’s eyes. Peculiar.

 “Look, mate, just let him and no-one’s gonna get hurt.” John growled, hand steady on his gun.

“Drop it,” The criminal snarled, glaring at John in the low light as he dug the muzzle of his own weapon into Sherlock’s temple threateningly.

 “Let. Him. go.” John spat back furiously. He was so furious, in fact, he didn’t seem to hear the creak of the floorboards behind him or feel the slight rush of air as another thug appeared behind him in the doorway.

“John, behind you!” Sherlock yelled.

A gunshot rang out, and his vision went black.

***

He had been at the hospital for what seemed like hours now. John felt sick with worry. His heart had been doing double time ever since he’d entered that bloody building, thinking the worst had already happened... A wave of horror rode over him again as he remembered watching Sherlock crumple to the floor as the gunshot reverberated in that tiny room. He bounced his leg anxiously as he waited for the nurse tending to his superficial injuries to let him go, desperate to get out and find Sherlock.

As soon as he was released, John headed straight for the intensive care unit, those staff that knew him staying well out of his way. After a bit of interrogation of an unfortunate junior doctor, he found the room where his friend was lying, unconscious, but at least still alive.

“He was hit on the head pretty badly, so we’re going to keep him overnight for observation,” the doctor explained. “You can stay in here with him. There’s a chair over there.” She waved in the general direction of said chair before swiftly withdrawing.

John took a deep breath to steady himself. It was alright. Sherlock was alright. It was a simple concussion, and the bruises and scrapes from the scuffle weren’t serious, he reassured himself, venturing closer to inspect him. He pulled the chair over to the bed, looking his friend over again before sitting down and trying to get comfortable. He wasn’t going anywhere until Sherlock woke up.

An hour passed, and he found himself replaying the fateful afternoon again and again in his head. It was lucky that the bastard holding Sherlock had only pistol-whipped him, and the one who had loomed up behind John had missed his mark and buried his bullet in the wall instead. It was unfortunate that John had had to break his jaw, but when a muscly goon is swinging a knife at your guts, you don’t really have time to step back and say “Hey, why don’t we just sit down and talk this out?”

His eyes came to rest on Sherlock again. He was still unconscious, monitors beeping around him reassuringly. John thanked god that this was the worst that’d happened to him. He didn’t know how he would have coped if… If…

He shook his head, trying to get rid of the thought. Sherlock wasn’t dead, he was right here in front of him, and he would wake up soon and come home with John, and they could go back to… normal.

He grimaced. It was becoming more and more obvious to him that what he wanted with Sherlock was just a bit more than their ‘normal.’ The cuddling, the hand-holding, the drunken kissing- God, why couldn’t he just be content with what he had? Sherlock didn’t want it, so there was no point in daydreaming about it, was there? He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He felt so selfish, wanting something Sherlock couldn’t give him. Even now, here, he wanted to reach out and take Sherlock’s hand, just to feel better, to feel safe. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He crossed his arms and hunched in on himself, staring grimly at Sherlock’s prone form.

***

He must have nodded off for a bit, because the next thing he heard was Sherlock’s voice, quiet and husky, whispering his name. John blinked blearily as he met his friend’s worried eyes.

“John,” Sherlock whispered again, almost timidly, “I thought- I-”

“Shush,” John mumbled softly, “we’re both safe. I’m here.” Without thinking, he reached out and took Sherlock’s hand, squeezing it comfortingly. Sherlock squeezed back.

“I’m sorry,” He murmured after a few seconds, not meeting John’s eyes. “I should have waited for you. It was my fault.”

“It’s alright, Sherlock.”

“It’s not.” He screwed his eyes shut. “I- I left you behind and now you’re hurt, -you could have died - and you’re worrying about me!” His eyes snapped open to glare at him. “You don’t need to worry about me John. I don’t-”

He clamped his lips together in a grimace and turned his head away.

“You don’t…what?”

“I don’t deserve it.” Sherlock’s voice was bitter.

“Sherlock.” John said, caught off guard by this unexpected outburst. “You’re my friend, my best friend. Yeah, you’re a bit of an idiot for rushing off without me, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve- Look, I’ve been with you this far, and I don’t plan on leaving you anytime soon, so just… trust me. I care about you.” The words slipped from his mouth as his grip on Sherlock’s hand got tighter.

Sherlock turned back to look at him, calculatingly. “Is- is that why you looked so scared back there? When you saw me-”

“Yes. I… didn’t want to lose you.” John tried to school his face into a friendly-but-not-too-friendly expression. “It doesn’t matter now. Just sit back and get some rest.”

“Are you going to stay?”

“Of course, Sherlock. I’m not gonna leave you.”

Sherlock nodded tersely and settled back onto the bed.

“Thank you,” he whispered, as he closed his eyes. John squeezed his hand again gently, trying to ignore the lump in his throat as he too drifted into a fitful sleep.

Chapter Text

Sherlock winced as John tenderly unwrapped the bandages on his hand, revealing the nasty gash he had obtained from the thugs almost a week ago. It was still healing, and John had been taking care of it - and the rest of him - as they both recovered from their injuries.

Sherlock looked up through his eyelashes at John, who was sitting across the table from him, a serious look on his face as he gently cleaned and redressed the wound. He looked up and caught Sherlock's eyes. A curious look passed between them, and Sherlock looked away, feeling his cheeks redden for a reason he couldn't fathom. He was still under orders to ‘take it easy on the brain work’ from John, as he was still healing from the concussion. Given that John was the only authority he'd respect on the matter, this meant he'd been suppressing his deductions and spending most of his time in his darkened room, sleeping, meditating, or reading old case files. He didn't mind this as much as he usually would have. John had drilled it into him that it was imperative to rest if he wanted to recover quickly and he didn’t particularly feel like disobeying, despite the frustration. He had assumed that John would never want to talk to him again after the mess he'd gotten them both into, and yet here he was, tending to Sherlock's every want and need. It was astounding. He wanted to return the favour, as he vaguely remembered that John had been injured too, but his dulled mind had kept him from figuring out where, and what to do about it.

"There you are, Sherlock." John brought him out of his reverie with a light pat of his hand. "Your head should be almost better by now as well."

They smiled at each other, and Sherlock felt something warm and fuzzy inside. This had been happening frequently around John lately, and it was confusing him.

"I think I might go for a walk."

He stood, towering over John.

“Want me to come with?” John asked.

“Uh… no. I’ll be out for quite a while.”

“That’s alright. I’ve got some stuff to do around here anyway."

Sherlock couldn't help but notice a flicker of something in John’s eyes, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was. With a nod, he grabbed his coat and scarf and said goodbye. He'd gotten out of the door and past the end of Baker Street before he remembered with a groan that he'd left his phone behind. Obviously unable to text John to bring it to him, he headed back to the flat, moving quietly through the building so as not to disturb John in whatever he was doing. He stopped in the living room for a moment, trying to remember where it was. His eyes fell on the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar. Assuming it was empty, he entered, and startled John, who dropped the med kit he was holding in surprise. He was sitting on the edge of the bath, naked apart from his pants and several blood-spotted bandages.

 “Uh,” He said, blushing as he closed his legs and moved his hands to protect his modesty.

“John,” Sherlock murmured, focusing on the bandages on John’s left arm, right leg, and torso. “You didn’t tell me it was this bad.”

“It’s not that bad,” John said petulantly. “Only a few minor lacerations.” He reached to pick up the med kit and winced as he jostled the injury on his arm. Sherlock was at his side immediately.

“Let me do it for you.” He bent to pick it up, ignoring John’s huff of annoyance.

“Fine.” John grudgingly offered up his injured arm, taking a fresh roll of bandages from the med kit in his other hand as Sherlock carefully unwound the old dressings, revealing a long cut across the bicep.

“Here,” John set the fresh bandages in his lap and pulled some antiseptic wipes from the kit. “Use these to clean it.” Sherlock shrugged off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves, not wanting them to brush against the injury, before taking a wipe and gently cleaning the wound. When he was done, he reached for the new bandages without thinking, his fingers brushing against John’s thighs. He felt John jump at the touch.

“Sorry.” He murmured, a faint blush coming to his cheeks as he bandaged the cut.

He secured it in place, then gestured to the other two.

“Shall I do those too?”

“Um, yeah. Please.” John avoided eye contact as Sherlock, realising he wouldn’t be able to get at the wound on John’s chest properly from this angle, got on his knees before him. He shuffled closer to get a good look, inadvertently placing himself between John’s legs.

Focused on the task at hand, Sherlock didn’t quite notice how close they were until he’d finished. He looked up at John, who seemed to be analysing the ceiling in great detail, a noticeable flush creeping across his cheeks. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“That alright?” His voice sounded almost husky. He could feel John’s warmth.

“Uh, yeah, thanks.” John looked down briefly, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he caught Sherlock’s eyes. They both glanced away, and Sherlock started work on the abrasion on John’s right thigh. He could feel tension roiling in the air as he moved in between John’s legs, trying not to brush against the thin cotton of his friend’s pants. He disposed of the soiled dressing and cleaned the wound before noticing the growing erection in front of him.

“Can you pass some more bandages?” He gulped, trying not to stare.

John complied without looking at him. Sherlock didn’t mean to let his fingers brush against John’s as he took the fresh roll, but the small breath it drew from John made his own pants seem to grow tighter. He finished the job quickly and looked back up at John, who seemed intent on memorising the cracks in the tile wall opposite.

“Everything alright, John?” He could feel the blood rushing in his ears, as well as further south. He really wasn’t sure what to do.

“Yes, thanks.” John’s voice sounded an octave higher. “Sorry- I-”

Sherlock stopped him with a wave of his hand. Time to diffuse the situation. “Entirely my fault. The position I chose was… improper. I can only imagine it was a simple stress response. Nothing more.”

John grimaced. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” A wave of guilt washed over him. John was clearly upset. What else could he say? Or do? Nothing.

“I’ll be off then.” He headed towards the door, before remembering the reason he’d come back in the first place.

“Ah, I’ve just got to get my-” He leaned across John to fetch his phone from the shelf behind him and heard something small but unmistakeable as he brushed against his friend’s chest. A moan. He himself went pink, snapping straight back up. He made a beeline for the door, clutching his phone tight in his white-knuckled hands.

***

As he stalked through the busy streets of London, Sherlock found his mind returning to the scene in the bathroom, trying to make head or tails of it. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be thinking too hard, but his thoughts were racing ahead of him, dancing around the topics of love, and sex, and sex with John, and love again.

With a groan, he plopped himself down on a park bench and pulled out his phone, brow furrowed. Searching ‘How to tell if you’re in love with someone’ brought up thousands of results. Trust humanity to be as clueless here as they were in other things, he thought, bitter at his own confusion on the matter. He clicked on the top result, which brought up a checklist which he quickly ran through. Staring at John? Check. Feeling like he was high around him? Check. Constantly thinking about him? Check. Wanting him to be happy, having warm, fuzzy feelings when he’s near, not feeling pain as strongly as he did before? Check, check, check. He went through a few more results, each turning up the same answer: He was in love, or at least falling in love. With John. Who was sweet, and kind, and had kissed him when he was drunk. And sober. And had gotten a boner as Sherlock knelt before him. Huh. Sherlock continued his walk, turning this over in his mind. He loved John. John… appeared to at least be sexually interested in him. But love? Yeah right. John thought of him as a friend, nothing more. He couldn’t possibly love him. What were they going to do?

He continued on like this, eventually ending up back in front of the flat, pacing furiously as his thoughts roiled and his stomach churned. It was nearly midnight, and he couldn’t see any lights on, which was good. He didn’t think he could face John right now.

Just as he was considering the idea of carrying on as though nothing had happened, or perhaps leaving the flat for good, he heard a muffled shout from inside. Senses alert, he unlocked the door quietly and hurried up the stairs to the flat. No sign of John. Another shout rang out, followed by a thump and a low moan, and Sherlock was already outside John’s room, heart racing. He flung open the door, only stopping to ascertain that the room was free of external danger. He relaxed slightly. John was clearly embroiled in a nightmare of some sort, not being attacked by some fiendish intruder as he had imagined.

“Sherlock!” John cried out, thrashing about in his duvet. Sherlock cautiously stepped closer and flicked the bedside lamp on. John was clearly terrified.

“Sherlock! Please!” He cried out again, his voice breaking. Springing into action, Sherlock tried to capture his flailing limbs. After a moment’s struggle, he managed to grab hold of John and clutch him to his chest.

“I’m here, John, I’m here! Wake up!” Sherlock shook him, and John woke up, fisting his hands in Sherlock’s coat before realising who he was clinging to. Sherlock could feel his heart pounding against his chest. John looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“Sherlock- I-” His face crumpled. Tears rolled down his cheeks, heavy and fast, and he buried his head in Sherlock’s chest, choking back sobs that wracked his body. Sherlock stroked his hair soothingly, whispering to John as he felt him slowly relax.

“It’s ok, John. I’m here. It’s alright.”

Sherlock absent-mindedly pressed a kiss to the top of his head. John froze, his balled fists flexing in the thick cotton of Sherlock’s coat.

“What was that?” He whispered.

“I, uh-”

“You kissed me.” John paused. “I- You-”

Sherlock drew a deep breath. Best to get it over with, he thought.

“John. I’m sorry. I’m in love with you. I’m sorry. I know you do not- cannot- feel the same way-”

“What?” John’s head whipped up.

“I understand,” Sherlock continued, not daring to look at John’s face, “If you do not want me here, and if you… want me to leave. Permanently.” He whispered this and flinched as John brought his hand up to cup his cheek. He risked a quick dart at his face. John’s brow was furrowed, his mind clearly working around this new information.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, “You monumental idiot. How have you not noticed by now that I love you too?”

Sherlock felt his system crash.

“Sherlock? You okay?” He heard John, but could only stare dumbfoundedly at him.

“For fuck’s sake.” John wiped at an errant tear and raised his eyes to the heavens. He bit his lip, studied Sherlock’s face for a moment, then leant in and gently placed a kiss on his forehead.

“Please don’t go silent on me. I love you, you daft bugger. Have for a while now.”

Sherlock unfroze. His lip trembled. “Really?”

“Really.” Without much further ado, John kissed him. Sherlock melted into it, his hands resting on John’s chest as he shyly responded. After a moment, John pulled away, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s, and pulling him closer with the hands in his coat.

“Sherlock, I- I thought you were dead. In the basement, and then in my dream- I couldn’t- I can’t lose you. I don’t want to lose you.”

Their breath mingled in the space between them. Sherlock felt another wave of guilt crash over him. “You’re not going to, John, I swear. I thought so too and- If you want me, you can have me. All of me. All I want is you.”

John wiped another tear from his eye. “Of course you can have me.”

Sherlock smiled at that, a smile that soon morphed into another kiss, then another and another, until he had pushed John back onto the bed and they were both grinning as they traded kisses back and forth. With a giggle, John grabbed Sherlock’s waist and pulled him down to lie next to him.

“Do you want to stay in here tonight?” He asked, his eyes betraying the lingering effects of his nightmare.

“Of course,” Sherlock pulled away reluctantly. “I’ll be right back.” He practically sprinted downstairs, and was changed and ready for bed in record time.

When he got back upstairs, John was lying on the far side of the bed, facing him. He sat up, looking slightly nervous. Sherlock shut the door and slowly padded to the vacant side of the bed, watching John for any signs he was doing something wrong. He slid in next to him, sitting up as well.

“You like cuddling, from what I recall.” He ventured, unsure of what John wanted.

“Yeah. Do you?” John scooched a bit closer. Sherlock nodded. He could see that his pride wasn’t letting John make the first move. Steeling his nerves, he folded John into his arms, careful in his movements so as not to jostle their injuries. John allowed Sherlock to slowly pull him down until they were lying face-to-face, just like they had in that hotel not too long ago. John swallowed his pride and flung his arms around Sherlock, burying his face in his chest and squeezing tight. Sherlock responded in kind, holding John as he buried his face in his sandy blonde hair. He adjusted the duvet so that it covered them properly, and pressed another kiss to John’s head, humming contentedly as he felt John press a kiss to his chest where his face was buried.

“Love you,” he murmured, marvelling at the ease with which the words slipped off his tongue and the sincerity he found in them.

“Love you too,” came the muffled reply, which was soon followed by a soft snore. Sherlock smiled happily, turned off the bedside light, and joined John in a happy, peaceful sleep.

Chapter Text

Sherlock woke up slowly to a head of sandy hair tickling his nose. He smiled and buried his face in the short locks, inhaling deeply and lazily as he basked in the warmth emanating from his partner. God, John smelt good. He felt him stir in his arms, tightening the arm that was snaked around his waist and pulling them flush against each other. Sherlock blushed. He could feel several parts of John’s anatomy that he wasn’t yet acquainted with, and one part in particular seemed eager to meet him. It jutted into his stomach as John sleepily dragged his uninjured leg over Sherlock’s, pinning him in place. Sherlock drew in a deep breath, his own anatomy responding in kind. He whispered John’s name. John hummed happily back and nuzzled into his collarbone. A curious hand crept under Sherlock’s pyjama top, dancing up his back to stroke his shoulders gently, and he moaned quietly into John’s hair.

“John,” He murmured, shakily inhaling, “Are you awake?”

“Mmmm,” John replied, “Don’t wanna wake up,” He sighed and moved his hand lower, dipping below Sherlock’s waistband. He squeezed Sherlock’s ass, making him moan loudly and buck into him, his fingers flexing in the duvet. He growled and nipped at John’s ear.

John pulled back and cracked open an eyelid, clearly taking stock of the situation. His face melted into a slow, cocky smirk as he noticed the somewhat desperate look on Sherlock’s face. His smirk grew wider as he traced a finger over Sherlock’s side, enjoying the small tremor it caused in Sherlock’s bottom lip.

“I’ve been waiting for this for so lo-” He drawled, before Sherlock shut him up with a passionate kiss.

“More. Please.” He whispered into the small space between them, before their lips reunited. John moaned as Sherlock pressed his erection against his uninjured thigh, and squeezed his ass again, delighting in the low growl it drew from Sherlock’s lips.

“Sherlock…” He breathed, as Sherlock’s undamaged hand made its way to the front of his pants and he pressed into the touch, running his hands over Sherlock’s body, exploring and discovering as he had wanted to do for so long. Another frustrated growl burst forth from Sherlock and he grabbed at John’s t-shirt, yanking it up and off, barely getting it off before his mouth was doing unspeakable things to John’s hard nipples.

“Oh, fuck,” John moaned, threading his hand into Sherlock’s hair and tugging slightly. He pulled Sherlock’s head back up and kissed him ferociously, biting his lip and pulling him so that they could rut against each other. Sherlock broke away briefly, pupils blown wide.

“John,” He rumbled once he’d caught his breath, in a voice impossibly lower than before, “May I…?” He tugged at John’s waistband and John nodded emphatically, lifting his hips to let Sherlock pull off the obstructive garment, allowing him to stroke John slowly.

“God, Sherl-” He mumbled distractedly, face buried in Sherlock’s chest. “That feels so- ah!”

Sherlock had cupped his balls briefly, giving them a light squeeze that sent tremors up John’s spine. Growling again, he placed a steady hand on John’s chest and pushed him to lie on his back before throwing off the covers and swinging his leg over John’s torso to straddle him. They shared another heated kiss as Sherlock not-quite-accidentally pressed his ass against John’s boner, and they began to moan and rut against each other in unison. Breaking away again, Sherlock stopped to press a trail of quick kisses down John’s body, crawling backwards until he was placed between John’s legs, his face hovering inches away from the target of his attention.  He looked up at John suggestively, and John nodded emphatically, still half-convinced this was some beautiful dream. Sherlock darted his tongue out, and with quick licks travelled the length of John’s dick, one hand pinning John’s hips to the mattress to stop him from bucking, the other gently fondling his testicles. His eyes darted up to meet John’s as he lapped teasingly at the head, and he watched John’s rapt expression as he slowly took the rest into his mouth. He sucked slowly, working his tongue around the tip and bobbing his head up and down as John moaned and moved his hips involuntarily. Sherlock snaked a hand up to tweak one of John’s nipples, and John whined and shuddered at his touch, clenching a fist in Sherlock’s hair.  

“Tell me when you’re close, John.” Sherlock had pulled off for a moment, sensing John’s impending orgasm. His plush lips were red and shiny. John nodded down at him, then threw his head back as Sherlock continued his onslaught, quickening his movements. He tugged at John’s balls, ran his fingers up and down his quivering thighs, lapped at the precum that was leaking steadily from his twitching cock-

“Sh- Sherl- I’m close-”

Sherlock grinned as he sucked just that little bit harder, squeezing John’s balls again and moving his head in time with John’s quick, frantic thrusts. With a low groan, John came, filling Sherlock’s mouth as he shuddered to a rest. Sherlock waited until John pushed weakly at his head before pulling off and swallowing. John was breathing heavily, eyes closed and a blissed-out smile plastered across his face.

After a moment, he opened his eyes again with what looked like great effort.

“Sherlock…” He hummed, beckoning him to lie next to him. Sherlock smirked at the profound effect he’d had on his lover and crawled back up to join him. John glued himself to Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him tightly and nuzzling happily into his neck, pressing grateful kisses to every bare bit of Sherlock’s skin he could reach. They lay down again, and John pulled him closer, breathing deeply as he recovered from his orgasm.

Once recovered, he tangled the hand that was lying idle on the pillow beside them in Sherlock’s unruly head of curls and pulled him in for a chaste kiss. His pulling at Sherlock’s hair, however innocent, elicited a low moan from Sherlock, and he hummed interestedly, turning his mind to Sherlock’s own needs. He pulled Sherlock’s head back to bare his throat and kissed tenderly down the column of Sherlock’s neck, stopping at the collar of his shirt. He earnt a small whine as he slowly, teasingly undid the buttons and pushed apart the fabric to lay Sherlock bare. Running his hands over the pale skin before him, he laid curious kisses and soft caresses wherever he could. He explored Sherlock’s exposed ribs, his bony hips, his plump ass, and his shapely legs before tracing a finger slowly up Sherlock’s length. He hesitated.

“Sherlock, you know when I said I had experience with the other sex? I, uh… didn’t actually get this far with him.” His slight blush spoke of his uncertainty.

“You’ve never done this before?” Sherlock was slightly surprised at John “Three Continents” Watson’s admission of ignorance.

“Well, I know the mechanics, I just- what would you like?”

“Hmm.” Sherlock thought for a moment. “Ideally, I’d like you to fuck me-” John drew in an aroused breath. “- but I’d rather take it slow if you’re inexperienced.” John nodded.

“I know,” Sherlock smirked. “Could you sit up against the headboard for me?” John did so, looking mock-suspiciously at Sherlock as he positioned himself on John’s lap, his knees either side of John’s thighs, carefully avoiding the bandages. John drew in another breath as he got a proper look at Sherlock’s cock. It was long, thin, slightly curved. He reached up to lightly stroke it. Sherlock purred- honest-to-god purred- and leaned down to kiss him.

“This alright?” He checked, smiling down at John.

“More than alright.” John beamed up at him. “Tell me if you don’t like it.” Sherlock nodded and moaned as John’s hands found their way to his nipples, rubbing his sensitive flesh. John smirked, and remembering what Sherlock had done to him a few minutes earlier, moved that hand to Sherlock’s balls, where he rolled them in his palm and squeezed gently. Sherlock moaned and braced himself against the headboard. Feeling more confident, John placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips and pulled him up and forward so that the tip of his cock was resting on his lips. He opened his mouth and gently guided Sherlock forward until he was as far as he was comfortable. Then, using one hand to pump Sherlock’s cock in time with his mouth, and the other to squeeze his ass and push him forward, he slowly built up a pace.

As John worked, Sherlock gazed down at him, marvelling at the situation. It felt so good, just like he’d remembered, and with John- God, it was a good thing he could delay his orgasm, or this would be over far quicker than he wanted. He gasped and moaned as John’s hand left his ass to pinch his nipples slightly, and he opened his eyes to find John staring up at him, a cocky smile on his lips that was recognisable despite it being stretched around his cock.

With a lengthy groan, he managed to get out a “John, I’m going to-” before his body betrayed him. He heard himself moaning and gasping as he spilt into John’s mouth, and shivered slightly as his orgasm passed over. Coming back to himself, he pulled away slowly and sprawled on the mattress next to John with a small groan. He cracked his eyes open and saw John grinning down at him, lips red and cheeks redder.

“Good?” John teased.

Sherlock nodded emphatically, reaching up to pull John down into a passionate kiss that lasted until they had both run out of breath.

“I love you.” Sherlock said, kissing John wherever he could reach.

“I love you too,” John slid closer, wrapping his arm around Sherlock and resting his head on his chest. “Although I should have insisted you buy me dinner first.”

Sherlock chuckled at that. “I’ll take you to Angelo’s later,” He promised, his eyes warm as they met John’s. “But first-” He looked pointedly at the bedside clock and dragged the covers up to cover them both.  “It’s about 5am, and I imagine you’d like to continue sleeping.”

“Yeah, well, as long as you’re here.” John grinned.

“I promise I will be. Always.” He held John tighter.

Likewise.” John yawned and snuggled into him. “Night, love.”

“Night, John. Mon amour.”

 “Cute.” John giggled sleepily and poked him in the ribs. “Now go to sleep.”

John soon followed his own advice, and Sherlock did too, eventually, dreaming of his new life – their new life – together.