Chapter Text
The next few hours pass in a blur of strobing blue lights, yellow police tape, a corpse in a black trench coat and Louboutin stilettos, a mad dash across the city pursuing a clue that leads to a loading dock and crates filled with cheap ceramic elephant figurines. Sherlock pockets one to analyze later, then drags John to a several unsavory locations to slip cash and a folded note into the hands of numerous homeless people.
“And now we wait,” Sherlock says with satisfaction, leading John down a narrow alley toward a main road. He looks over at John, whose expression has been constantly shifting between awe and befuddlement.
“Wait for what?” John asks, dodging a puddle.
“For information.” Sherlock comes to a stop, clapping his hands together. “Hungry?”
It takes John a moment to process the sudden change in topic. “Sure, yeah.”
“There’s a fantastic Chinese place not far from here. Open all night.”
They sit in a booth upholstered in burgundy faux leather, discussing the night’s events over savory noodles and crisp vegetables and smoky tea. John is relaxed, smiling more, the conversation turning personal as a single candle throws shadows onto the red tablecloth.
Sherlock rests his chin on his steepled fingers. “How’s your leg?” he asks, predicting John’s answer.
John pauses, his eyes widening in surprise. “It’s good. Not bothering me at all.”
Sherlock smiles with satisfaction, pouring himself more tea. “Where are you staying?”
“A bedsit. It’s tiny and depressing, but it’s the only thing I could afford in the city. Not very inspiring for writing.”
Sherlock lifts an eyebrow and John bites his bottom lip, looking as if he wished he hadn’t said the last part. “I’m supposed to keep a journal,” he admits. “My therapist thinks it’ll help.” He glances up at Sherlock. “Apparently I have some issues, but you probably already deduced that.”
PTSD, Sherlock thinks to himself, trust issues, rough family life. “Everybody has issues,” he replies quietly.
John shrugs, picking at his food. “I’ve learned that you can’t outrun them, no matter how many countries you move to.”
“But London drew you back.”
John takes a sip of tea, reflecting. “When I was overseas, I was surprised by how much I missed the city. I lived here when I trained at St. Bart’s, and I came back again when I was first shipped home from Afghanistan. Funny how you keep returning to the same things over and over.”
Sherlock holds John’s gaze. “Maybe you’re searching for something.”
John’s mouth curves up, his fingers laced around his cup. “Maybe.”
Their feet are close beneath the table, their knees almost touching, a current passing between them. John’s blue eyes are inky in this light, stubble shadowing his jaw. Sherlock could gaze at him for hours, amazed that he’s real and within arm’s reach.
Sherlock’s phone rings, ruining the moment, and he closes his eyes briefly in frustration. He snatches it from his inner pocket.
“What?” he snaps. “I’m working. … Yes, of course it’s a case. What’s so urgent? … Oh, God, tell her no. … Absolutely not — I’m not doing that again. … I’m not going, Christmas was enough. …. Fine, fine — I’ll call her. ”
Sherlock scowls as he ends the call. “Sorry,” he mutters. “That was my annoying brother.”
“Everything alright?”
“Just relaying orders from my imperious mother.”
“That reminds me,” John says, “I should check my messages. I have a difficult sister. She’s a disaster right now. Just went through a bad breakup.” He frowns, digging into his pockets, worry crossing his face. “I can’t find my phone.”
Sherlock thinks back through their steps, calculating where John might have lost it. “We should look back at the flat.”
John agrees, still distracted. Sherlock tosses a few bills onto the table and they leave, taking yet another cab back to Baker Street. The streets are quiet, a light drizzle falling. Once they arrive, John trots up the steps close behind Sherlock, following him into the sitting room.
John casts his gaze around while Sherlock goes directly to the chair by the fireplace. Within seconds, he produces the missing phone from between the cushions.
“Here we are. Must have slipped out of your pocket when you sat down.”
“Thanks,” John says with relief. As he reaches for his phone their fingers brush, sending a shiver up Sherlock’s arm.
John checks his messages.Seeming satisfied that all is well, he curls his phone into his palm.
“So,” Sherlock starts hesitantly, “what should I tell Mrs. Hudson about the room?”
John breaks into a grin. “That I’ll take it. It’s perfect, all of it.” His gaze lingers on Sherlock, then he runs his hand over the back of his neck, as if embarrassed by his enthusiasm.
“Good, I’m glad.” Although Sherlock’s voice is calm, inside he’s leaping with joy. “We should exchange numbers so I can reach you.”
They fumble through digits and contact lists, then slide into an awkward silence, the evening suddenly drawing to an end.
“It’s late,” John finally says. “I should be going.”
Sherlock doesn’t want him to leave, but doesn’t know how to postpone his departure. “I’ll walk you out.”
They descend the stairs to the foyer, dark but for a faint cast of yellow light from the street lamps outside.
John turns to Sherlock. “Thanks for — well, for the best night I’ve had in a long time.”
Sherlock smiles, wishing he could touch John, hold him close, tell him the depth of secrets that he knows. “My pleasure.”
They exchange a long look, ending only when John reluctantly lowers his gaze away. He turns the knob of the heavy black door and pulls it open, about to leave.
“Oh.” He stands motionless in the doorway, looking out at the street. The light drizzle has become a cold downpour.
They both stare at the rain, the street deserted, no cab in sight, no umbrella at hand.
“You could,” Sherlock starts, his voice strangely thin, “you could stay here.”
John looks up at him, vulnerability and desire flickering across his face. “I think I should.”
Sherlock pushes the door shut, reducing the sound of the rain to a dull hiss in the background.
They stand facing each other, vibrating with unspoken tension. Sherlock’s pulse races, his eyes searching John’s face, trying to read him, trying to tell him how very, very much he wants him in every possible way.
John breaks the impasse first, reaching up to cup his hand behind Sherlock’s head, pulling him closer, placing a soft kiss against his lips. A million sensations flood Sherlock’s system, overriding his brain. John’s mouth is warm, vibrant, the kiss stealing the breath from his lungs. He inhales shallowly, trembling a little. This is the moment he’s been living for, a second chance with John — this John who is gruff and flirtatious, complex and damaged and very much alive, his heart beating fiercely under his ribs.
Sherlock grasps John’s arms, needing to feel the reality of his muscles and bones, a gesture that John mistakes as a rebuff.
John backs away, gasping out an apology. “I’m sorry — I shouldn’t have done that.”
“I want you to,” Sherlock growls, sweeping John closer, lowering his mouth to John’s. He kisses him hard, telegraphing the intensity of his desire. John responds, digging his fingers into Sherlock’s back, hungrily returning the kiss.
Sherlock breathes in John’s scent of leather and skin-warmed cologne, memorizing the exact notes. His runs his hands down John’s back, but his coat is heavy, a barrier. Sherlock starts pushing it off his shoulders and John helps, wriggling his arms free from the sleeves.
The coat slumps to the floor and they stumble backwards, Sherlock pressing John against the wall with his hips. It’s thrilling, almost illicit, kissing and groping in the dark entranceway, having met just hours ago. Yet they’ve known each other far longer, part of a pattern that has been repeating for centuries, another link in a long chain of encounters.
He kisses John again, more slowly this time, their tongues sliding alongside, teasing, flicking, tempting. John’s hands skim from Sherlock’s back to his hips, his fingers gradually sliding down to grip his arse, grinding him against his thighs. Sherlock can feel John’s erection through his jeans, inflaming his own arousal.
“Maybe we should go upstairs,” John whispers, trailing his suggestion up the length of Sherlock’s neck.
“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, his voice husky.
John hastily grabs his coat and they stagger up the stairs, stopping every few steps for messy kisses and wandering hands, finally making it to the sitting room. Sherlock takes John’s coat and carelessly tosses it into a corner of the sofa, nuzzling behind John’s ear.
“I’d like to see your bedroom,” John murmurs.
The less-than-subtle hint sends a small shock through Sherlock’s system. He never imagined it would all happen so quickly, but he takes John by the hand, leading him down the short hallway.
The room is cool and dim, his private haven. As they stand by the bed, Sherlock realizes he’s never invited anyone to this bedroom before. Apart from the few days with John at the safe house, he’s led a solitary and celibate life the past several years.
“So this is you,” John says softly, looking around, taking in the personal details — the periodic table and antique bee print hung on the wall, the expensive white sheets, the bespoke shoes, the scientific books and journals stacked by the bed, the childhood photo of him playing on the beach with Mycroft.
Suddenly Sherlock sees himself through John’s eyes, mortified at what a sentimental, vain, and nerdy creature he must appear to be.
John looks back at Sherlock, pulling him against him, brushing his lips across Sherlock’s. “I like it.”
Relief washes over Sherlock, then words spill out.
“I don’t ever do this — have anyone here —” Sherlock cautions John, wanting him to know. “It’s been… a long time.”
John mouth curves into a smile. “I’m an exception?”
“You are. Very much so,” Sherlock answers, kissing his way along John’s jawline.
“Then I feel lucky.” John slides his fingers into Sherlock’s curls. “Extremely —” he shudders when Sherlock sucks a sensitive spot on his neck, “fucking — lucky.”
The heat in the room builds as they continue to explore and taste and touch, slowly prying off their shoes and unbuttoning shirts. Sherlock slides his hands up John’s chest, the dark hair coarse against his fingers. He pushes the shirt from John’s shoulders, tugging it off, wanting to see his bare skin.
At last he exposes the scar on John’s left shoulder and he pauses, struck for a moment by an echo from the past. He gently touches the puckered skin, then sinks to the bed, pulling John after him. He places his lips over the scar, grateful that the injury didn’t steal John away from him this time.
John suddenly cups Sherlock’s face, kissing him with a rush of emotion. His fingers trail down Sherlock’s neck to his sternum, nudging aside his white shirt, slipping it from his shoulders.
Sherlock’s almost forgotten about his own scar until John takes in a sharp breath. “My God, what happened?” John’s fingertips lay atop the bullet wound, shock written on his face.
“Someone tried to end my career.” Sherlock attempts to keep his voice light.
John looks up at him, his eyes full of concern. “Who did this?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Sherlock admits. “The police made an arrest, but it may have been a job for hire.”
John is somber as he traces the scar. “A centimeter more to the right and…” he doesn’t finish, but Sherlock knows what he’s thinking. His heart, shredded.
John says nothing more, simply leaning in to find Sherlock’s mouth, enveloping him in warmth and caresses. Their hands work at belts and flies, shimmying off jeans and trousers, socks and pants.
At last they’re fully naked, stretched out on their sides, palms circling each other’s cocks. Sherlock marvels at the girth in his hand, the hot skin and veins pulsing under his touch, the beads of slippery precome under his thumb.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” John murmurs, kissing Sherlock’s throat.
Sherlock’s concentration wavers, losing himself in what John is doing with his deft fingers. Wanting to amplify the sensation, Sherlock rouses himself enough to fling an arm out to the bedside table, rummaging in the drawer until he finds the bottle of lube he keeps for his own private stress-relief sessions.
The first drops of glistening liquid are cold, soon warming under the friction of their hands. John shifts his weight, guiding Sherlock onto his back. He climbs on top, straddling Sherlock’s hips, bracketing his shoulders with his hands. He slowly rocks his pelvis, dragging his heavy cock and balls back and forth over the length of Sherlock’s thick shaft.
Sherlock clutches at John’s back, moving his hips, drawing out the motion of their intimate counterpoint. John watches him, his eyes dark, absorbing Sherlock’s reactions, responding to his cues.
Sherlock groans deep in his throat and John lowers his head, licking his way into his pliant mouth. A moan slips from John’s lips as he increases the rhythm, their cocks rigid and leaking. Sherlock is on the edge, so close, needing an intensity that frotting can’t quite deliver.
He works his hand between their pelvises and John seems to understand, lifting his hips slightly. Sherlock grasps their cocks in his hand, stroking them both until all boundaries are blurred — John fucking into his fist, tongues fucking mouths, fingers gripping flesh, hot breaths panting, sheets bunching, the universe shrinking to their rutting, animal bodies.
Sherlock can’t tell if he or John comes first, waves of intense pleasure drowning him, gushes of sticky warmth spilling onto his belly, sounds that might or might not be coming from his mouth. His body goes limp, utterly drained, and John drapes over him, his weight crushing him into the bed springs.
John finally rolls to the side with a sated sigh, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Christ, your hand is big,” he says drowsily, but with admiration.
Sherlock turns to press his nose into John’s temple. “So’s your dick,” he mumbles.
“I’ve had no complaints,” John laughs. He faces Sherlock, a smile playing over his face. He brushes a stray curl from Sherlock’s forehead, then kisses him again.
He draws back and they gaze at each other, drifting in the afterglow.
“I still feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before,” John murmurs, his voice sleepy.
Sherlock smiles, not denying it. Maybe someday he’ll have the chance to tell John the story, to show him the diary and photographs. But for now he drinks in every detail of John’s face, watching him fade into sleep, his lashes dark against his cheek, listening to his breath even out to a slow and steady cadence.
A calm joy fills Sherlock, knowing that the universe has come full circle, a promise finally fulfilled. They’ve met again in London, and they’ll go to all his favorite places — obscure book stores and restaurants, forgotten tunnels and ancient catacombs, bridges and clock towers and graveyards. Above all, they’ll solve cases and come home together, drink tea and bicker and read by the fire, share the same bed and make love and laze away entire days tangled in each other’s arms.
This time, Sherlock vows, this time they will have decades together instead of weeks or months. His happiness brims over as he lightly places his lips on John’s forehead.
“John Watson,” he whispers for all of eternity to hear. “My John.”