Archive of Our Own ^beta

John felt a hint of guilt with every tear that dropped onto the shirt beneath him. It wasn’t his shirt, but instead his former flatmate’s, the very man holding him firmly in his arms. The army doctor knew the boffin’s wardrobe wasn’t cheap, but he cried on him anyway. He couldn’t pull back, he couldn’t let go. Not this time. Not ever again. 

As he lost all dignity, John pulled himself closer to the taller man, his forehead pressed deeply into Sherlock’s chest, his fingers gripping the fine fabric and clutching it into his white-knuckled fists. The only thing he could hear over his harsh breathing and sobs was the steady thumping of the detective’s heartbeat. Well, he didn’t hear it so much as he felt it. Either way, it was exactly what John needed at the moment.

The doctor calmed himself just enough so he could focus on the feeling of Sherlock’s heart beating against him. He gasped in a deep breath and held it for a moment, closing his eyes and focusing deeply on the sound of Sherlock Holmes, living, breathing, warm, and caring in front of him. Around him. Surrounding him completely. 

God, there should be a prescription for this.  

John melted as he sighed shakily. The last tear rolled down his cheek and Sherlock’s hand glided up and down his back, soothing him like a child. He has never felt so loved, so deeply and truly cared for, and so utterly pathetic in his life. He clung to his best friend as if he were about to be ripped away. He wouldn’t let that happen again. Is that why he held him so tightly? Or was he too embarrassed to let go and face the other man? 

Sherlock’s fingers, calloused from years of violin playing, found their way to the nape of John’s neck and into his grey hair. Who cares if this is embarrassing? God, it’s good. 

John turned to rest his cheek against Sherlock’s steady beating heart and tried not to remember the hole that was once shot through the same chest. He especially tried not to remember the woman who pulled the trigger…

He heard a soft shushing sound and wasn't sure if it was from Sherlock or his own mind. Either way, he decided to listen. 

The blogger gave up on thinking and feeling and just relaxed. For once in his life he truly let go. The majority of his weight was being supported by the hand still on his back and the body he was leaning on. John felt a million times lighter and for the first time in years, he felt peace. He knew deep down he had no reason to feel this way, no right to whatsoever. After all he’d done…

A skilled pair of fingers pressed deeply behind his ears and his brain went quiet again. He’d almost thought his eyes had rolled back in his head. It’s a miracle he’s even still upright. 

John wasn’t sure how long this went on for until the sound of his own moan brought him out of it. His eyes snapped open, the rhythm of a heart still thumping in his ear, though perhaps a bit quicker than before. His face felt hot and his body was deliciously warm. He became embarrassingly aware that Sherlock was still very much against him and was still very much massaging his scalp. He forced himself to look up.

Sherlock felt John shuffling and looked down to be greeted with the most beautiful blue eyes framed in pink and red. The tired man’s face was puffy and wrinkly and aged, but his cheeks and ears were vermillion and he was so beautiful. Sherlock hoped his feelings weren’t obvious, but seeing as John’s face was inches from his own and his heart rate was readily available to the army doctor, he knew it was hopeless. The detective watched grey hairs shuffle around as he moved his fingers across John’s scalp, the blogger’s eyes never leaving his face.

Oh, to stay in this moment forever. To see, to hold, to touch, and to feel John Watson. It was all he could ever ask for. 

Before he could speak a word, John was reaching a hand up to Sherlock’s face. The boffin’s shirt fabric remained in a bunch from where John had been gripping it as he made gentle contact with the tall man’s cheek. He held his cheek in his hand, the pads of his fingers lining the tall cheekbones, gliding back to search behind his ear. The detective’s skin and curly black hair were warmer than the rest of him, his face taking on a redder hue. 

Their eyes met and they saw each other. For the first time in over two years now, they really saw each other. John looked into Sherlock and Sherlock looked into him. Tears filled their eyes and they both spoke.

”I’m sorry.”

They softly laughed for a moment, 

“You shouldn't be,” They spoke together again.

Another laugh, and then silence. 

The look in their eyes asked a question and the hesitant pressure in their fingers held the answer. 

The two men moved together, in harmony and patience, and finally they met, lips to lips, heart to heart, and hand in hand. 

Never to be apart again.