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Chapter Text

"You've got to be kidding me."

"I assure you that I'm not very amused either," Sherlock replies dryly when John walks into his room at the Royal Edinburgh Hospital.

"Care to explain the text, then? John digs his phone out of his coat pocket. "'EDINBURGH. URGENT. NEED HELP BREAKING OUT. BRING MY TRACK BOTTOMS. SH'"

"I thought I managed to concisely convey the situation."

"I thought you'd been kidnapped by terrorists!"

Sherlock quirks his eyebrows. "And what sort of terrorists might these be?"

"I don't know! Maybe they wanted to swap their kilts for sweatpants!"

Sherlock blinks. And coughs, causing the plastic container next to his hospital bed to gurgle.

John puts down the plastic bag he's carrying. "Pleural drain? What did you do this time? This why you can't fly home, then?"

Sherlock nods. "Stepped into a rabbit hole on a field and fell onto some rocks. They're removing the tube today. British Airways tells me I can't fly with a recent history of pneumothorax."

"Why couldn't you take the train, then, if you're being released?"

"This thing," Sherlock pulls the blanket away from his right leg, revealing a cast reaching from his heels to the upper part of his thigh,"Makes it somewhat challenging to travel in anything but a car. I'm being released into your care so no need to actually break out of here, after all."

"So you fell down a rabbit hole?"

"Caught my leg in one and fell. Fractured tibia. Cracked my ribs on some rocks."

"Couldn't Mycroft sort this out? Mary has been having early contractions this week. I should be there, not driving you around the country."

"Mycroft would not have appreciated the reason I was here. As a matter of fact, he explicitly warned me off from coming here. Some pet project of his. He doesn't seem to care if people connected to it are disappearing."

"What about an ambulance transfer to St Barts, then?"

"As I said, I am being released. And Mycroft monitors the emergency services, as you must know by now."

John sighs resignedly. "I guess the sweatpants are for that clunky thing, then?" He points at the cast. "Can't fit it into your usual tight trousers?"

"My trousers are not tight, they're tailored."

"Whatever."

John packs Sherlock into the rental Vauxhall. His long legs barely fit across the backseat - due to the cast he has stretch across the back seat instead of sitting normally. They set off towards northern England.

"You couldn't have at least answered you phone when I tried to call!" John can't keep venom out of his tone.

"I did answer the phone."

"Yeah, but only after I'd already flown in. I'd have appreciated a proper explanation of the situation before I decided whether to blow off work and leave Mary to fend for herself."

"I don't see how wasting time explaining things to you would have changed said situation."

"I have a life now, Sherlock!"

"Yes, as I am well aware."

"A life that includes other things besides dragging your hide out of trouble."

"None of those other things take precedence over me."

John honks the horn as someone cuts in front of him in a roundabout. "Wankers."

"If they did, you wouldn't be here," Sherlock muses.

"It's a bit not good taking people for granted, Sherlock."

"I don't take _people_, for granted," Sherlock replies, articulating the word 'people' in his usual condescending way. "But I know I can rely on you being a constant in my life."

John doesn't say anything.

"I am your perfect danger-payoff ratio. Not Mary, not Sholto, not any of those vapid girlfriends you've circulated. Me."

"I. Am. Not. Gay." John reminds him between gritted teeth.

"Oh please. That's irrelevant. Like a murderer saying that he isn't left-handed. Labels, John. Just labels. They don't begin to cover the complexity of you as a human being."

"Is that a compliment?"

"What does it matter?"

John's mouth is an angry line.

"It doesn't matter what sort of archane rituals you use to bind yourself to your convenient little bourgeois front. This thing we have will still exist. Even if I'm dead, this thing will still have a mind of its own. You felt it, I know you did. I heard what you said at the graveyard."

"You really need to keep reminding me of that? Sometimes I really think I might hate you."

"And that is precisely why you can't live without me. Love is nice, but love mixed with more vile, unspeakable things is better."

"What about the fact that I don't think I want to have sex with you?"

"May I remind you what you've been telling me about relationships for years? 'There has to be more than sex'. For you, sex requires emotional connection. Sex is, in a way, just that, a connection. You can have sex with anyone. What we have, you can only have with me. Stop kidding yourself, John. We've been having sex from the second we met."

"Says the virgin."

This shuts Sherlock up for at least an hour.

Chapter Text

I ASSUME MY BROTHER IS WITH YOU? MH

IF YOU REFER TO THE MENACE IN THE BACKSEAT THEN YES. JW

"Did you have to choose such a small car?"

"That's all I could manage on my Visa. And I had no idea you'd stepped into a bloody rabbithole and gotten your leg broken."

"You should have said. I could have given you Mycroft's Mastercard."

"Of course you would have Mycroft's Mastercard. What was I thinking. Still, if you didn't want him knowing what you were up to, using his card might not have been a good idea."

"Point taken. I don't get why they had to give me this ridiculously long cast."

"It has to cover the next joints on both sides of the fracture. How's the pain?"

"Manageable. I remember fractured ribs being a lot more painful."

"But you don't remember me convincing them to give you a local anesthestic since we have a long drive?"

"I must've been so happy to see you I was distracted."

John glances at him in the rearview mirror. "That grin is creepy, Sherlock."

"If we're so eternally tied to each other, why'd you let me marry Mary, then?"

"You wanted to."

"How is that a good reason?"

"I like giving you things you want. I like seeing you happy."

"That's awfully sentimental of you."

"I've told you repeatedly I dislike sentimentality. I never claimed I was incapable of it. Mary has known right from day one. When I returned, I mean. Honestly, John, considering the high regard you claim to have for womenfolk, you don't give them much credit. Look at it this way, John: how many women did you scare off first dates because you kept talking about me too much before you met her and she actually stayed and listened?"

"It's not fair. It's not fair to her."

"She doesn't seem to mind. She said yes, didn't she? It'd be hard for her to find someone because her true nature would be bubbling through every once in awhile. She found a bargain, really. She's a reasonable person, she can compromise. You can do whatever you want with her, I don't mind."

"Of course you mind. If you're saying what I think you're saying in that roundabout, insulting way of yours, then what would prevent you from getting jealous?"

"The fact that I know that if push comes to shove you will always, always, choose me. I will admit, however, that I think it's sickening how much you're in love with the idea of being a normal, responsible family man."

"Are you saying I'm a bad husband? A bad father?"

"You can be many things. I think you will be a terrific father and husband-wise a lot of women could do a lot worse."

"So?"

"Just admit it. Just admit you're attracted to me. Intellectually, sexually, take your pick."

"Fucking hell, Sherlock."

"That a yes, then?"

"Maybe. Yes. I don't know.

"I need you to stop the car. I need to piss."

John hits the breaks a little harder than necessary. It's dark and raining so he kills the engine but leaves the lights on. Sherlock opens the door but doesn't make a move.

John drums his fingers on the steering wheel, slightly irritated.

Sherlock raises his brows. "Well?" he prompts.

"Well what?" John glances at him from the front seat.

Sherlock looks like he's about to swallow a bitter pill. "I need you to help me out. Getting in was easier but I don't think I can edge myself out without falling into the mud."

While John gets out of the car Sherlock's phone chimes. He looks at it and then places it on the car floor. "Mycroft wants to know why we've stopped. I think he's tracking the GPS on my phone."

John appears in the backseat doorway that's behind Sherlock. He grabs Sherlock's phone and throws it into the nearby bushes.

"Had it with Big Brother, then?" Sherlock remarks dryly. John doesn't reply, just grabs him by his armpits and drags him out of the car and onto his feet.

"'Why would I need you,'" he muses as he goes to dig Sherlock's crutches out of the trunk.

Sherlock finds his footing and receives his crutches. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing. Go sort out your business, then. It's bloody freezing out here."

"You're angry."

"Bloody brilliantly deduced as always."

"Are you angry because what I've said is incorrect, because it's me saying it or because it's you that hasn't said any of it in the past, even though you probably should have?"

John slows the car down to a halt, this time more gently. "All of the above." He turns to face Sherlock.

Their eyes meet.

"Here I am at at the arse end of the universe--"

"I'm sure the good citizens of northwestern Pontefract would disagree."

"Oh ha ha."

"Do continue."

"Here I am at the arse end of Pontefract, middle of the night, in the rain, with the most annoying man in England, away from my pregnant wife and my lovely, warm bed and still I have no desire to be anywhere else."

"My point exactly."

"Do you have to be so fucking smug about this? It's not like you've been Mr Honesty either."

"I've made my intentions quite clear."

"Sure. I guess I just wasn't there."

"You were there at our wedding."

John's jaw drops. "OUR wedding?"

Sherlock shrugs.

John opens his mouth to debunk this bullshit but before any sounds leave his throat it suddenly makes sense.

There were three people who made vows that night. And all of them had meant every word. It didn't matter if they were spoken in front of a priest or not, or even if they were vocalized aloud at all.

Mary knew. Like Sherlock had said, Mary truly isn't stupid. She saw and heard all and she chose John, even though she'd have to share.

"I'm an idiot," John blurts out.

"Evidently," Sherlock replies, bending his torso downwards so he can scratch his itching toes which are still orange from the iodine desinfectant.

"Am I the only one here who has to be making these sort of admissions, then? What about you?" John asks.

Sherlock turns his gaze away. "What about me?"

"What do you want from me?"

"I want what you're willing to give me. However little or much that is."

John sighs. "That's not fair either. We're all in this, as you just so illustrated. What do you want?"

"God knows you're already in my head and in my dreams. It's distracting. You. In my life. In my work. In my bed, I think."

"You 'think'?"

"I've never skydived or wrestled with anacondas. How would I know if I'd enjoy doing those things."

John runs his hand through his hair. "God, you and your metaphors. You say you want me. That sort of things usually are included in the equation. God, I'm actually sitting here discussing shagging you."

"You've romanced women you weren't intellectually attracted to. I'd assumed this was much less problematic since we have an emotional connection. Unless there was a major issue concerning my anatomy, which is understandable considering the ridiculous emphasis you put on cultural constructs and labels."

"Stop derailing this conversation, Sherlock. Do you want me or not?"

"God, yes," Sherlock says and actually blushes.

"Then why did you hesitate to answer?"

"The notion is sex with you is wonderful. The reality of it is full of uncertainties."

"Let's say we somehow solve this whole proble of me being married and me actually sorting through this fucking mess in my head. If, and only if, we ever get to that moment, it's going to be a disaster."

Sherlock looks taken aback. "Why?" he asks quietly.

"I don't know what I'm doing when it comes to blokes but at least I've been in the receiving end of certain things. You, on the other hand--"

"Is the concept of my inexperience truly so abhorrent that you don't want to say the word?"

"No. I just wished you could have had that with someone who has a clue about all of it. And who isn't as fucking confused."

"You use quite a lot of profanity when your sexual identity is being challenged."

"I think I'm going to ignore that."

They continue the drive in silence for a few kilometres, until John speaks again. "I still don't think this has been fair on you," he suggests.

Sherlock pontificates this for a moment. "How so?"

"It's not like I ever gave you a say in anything."

"You did."

"When?" John sounds incredulous.

"When you told Mary to sit down. I quote, 'because that is where they sit and then we decide if we want them'. You said 'we', John."

Chapter Text

The only room available in the dingy roadside motel has a double bed. John is too tired to develop any conspiracy theories about it.

"Why is this so awkward?" he blurts out after they are standing on opposite sides of the bed, about to take off their wet clothes.

"There's no reason it should be. We were flatmates for a long time."

"With separate bedrooms. You don't think the conversation we just had in the car changes anything?"

"I don't see why it should. It's not as if reality has been altered in any way. I'm still me, you are still you, Mary has known everything from the start."

"What about the baby?"

"Well what about it?"

"This is a fucked up scenario to bring a child into."

"Millions of people have complicated relationships. Studies say that all that's required for a child to thrive are at least one loving person in their lives, one friend in their peer group and the fulfillment of the lower tiers of Maslow's need hierarchy."

John stares as Sherlock. "You've done some sort of research into this, haven't you? Sherlock Holmes, researching babies."

"As I was saying, if one stable and loving adult person is enough for healthy development, I don't see why three wouldn't be even better. It's not like you would need to take me to school parents' nights and introduce us as some sort of polygamists."

"So you are going to be my thing on the side, then? My lover?"

Sherlock throws his hands up in frustration. "Enough with the labels!"

"I need some answers!" John yells, "Some sort of a fucking roadmap in this thing! I never know what I'm supposed to do with you, what to say, what the right thing is. Right now I don't know whether I should grab your knob or go sleep in the car."

Sherlock draws in a breath. "Sometimes I think you're not quite aware that you can hurt me." He rids himself of his t-shirt and socks and burrows under the covers, leaving John standing by the bed, looking forlorn.

Sherlock turns to face the opposite wall.

John balls up his his t-shirt and throws it onto a nearby chair. "Great. Just great. First you insist on having a talk like this, and then you start sulking."

There's no reply. John turns of the lights and slides underneath the duvet.

There's a bit of rustling from the bedding on the opposite side of the surprisingly large bed.

"Sherlock?" John tries quietly. "Sherlock, I'm sorry."

More rustling. "That's what you always say. First you indulge and then you try to negate it by apologizing," comes the reply from the opposite side of the bed.

"Indulge in what? We haven't even kissed."

Sherlock turns to face him. John can barely make out his outline in the dark.

"Yes, we have," Sherlock says quietly.

John sits up. "No, we haven't."

Sherlock seems to be fiddling with an errant curl. "Yes, we have," he tells John in a tone that leaves no room for doubt.

"When?"

"Stag night. On the stairs before we passed out."

"Why did you do that?"

"Wasn't me."

John gasps and takes a moment to process this. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I must've been so drunk, I don't even remember." Then realization hits him. "Oh my god. Oh god, Sherlock, it wasn't your--"

Sherlock reaches under his ankle to adjust the pillow he has arranged under his cast. "I don't put much weight to such--"

"If you say 'cultural construct' I'm going to make you regret it."

"Don't worry. You were very polite about it. Apologized profusely."

John reaches out to grip Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I stole your first kiss and couldn't even be arsed to remember it afterwards. It's my fault, really. I sort of rigged our drinks."

"You don't think I noticed?"

"Why didn't you say something, then? I thought you had a plan to regulate our intake."

"I was curious whether being inebriated enough would make you drop your cultural constructs," he comments in a somewhat mischievous tone.

"I know you're smiling into your pillow, you berk."

"You didn't steal a kiss, John. I think it would be a more accurate assessment that I tricked it out of you."

"Out of curiosity?"

"Pray tell, John. Do you kiss people out of curiosity or for some other reason?"

"Fair enough." John starts to remove his hand.

"Do you think --" Sherlock says tentatively, "--That under the circumstances you might leave your hand there?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Maybe."

Hours later, John wakes up to the sound of something large falling on the floor and then drawers and cabinets being opened. "Sherlock?"

The sounds stop.

John presses his fingers onto his eyeballs and rubs. Then he turns on the table lamp next to the bed.

Sherlock is sitting sprawled on the floor, his cast wedged between two chairs in what looks like an uncomfortable position. The minibar door is open and several miniature-sized whisky bottles sit open and empty on the table nearby. "What are you doing?" John asks.

Sherlock runs a hand through his curls. In the dim lighting John can make out that he is ghostly pale and a thin film of sweat has formed on his forehead.

"Are you trying to get drunk?" John interrogates.

"That would be a side effect, not the end result. I didn't want to wake you."

"Wake me for what?"

"The local anesthestic has stopped working," Sherlock admits.

"So you decided to douse yourself with tiny bottles of Jameson instead of asking for a painkiller? Seriously, Sherlock. You have no qualms about dragging me all the way to Scotland but won't wake me up if you're in actual pain? Jesus. They gave me your prescription and I filled it before we drove out of Edinburgh. You sat in the car while I went to the pharmacy, remember?"

Sherlock taps his forehead. "Must've been in the palace."

John gets out of bed and kneels down next to Sherlock, closing the minibar door. "Oh you idiot," he breathes out but doesn't sound angry at all. "Come on, let's get you off the floor." He circles his arms around Sherlock and pulls him to his feet. Soon Sherlock has regained his footing and has his crutches all ready and it would be logical to let go, but John doesn't. He just holds on, arms around his former flatmate, chest against chest.

It takes a moment before Sherlock raises his chin and meets his gaze, their faces mere inches apart. "Is this an experiment?" he asks quietly, whisky-smelling breath ghosting on John's face.

"Yes and no," John replies slowly.

Sherlock studies John's lips, his frown lines, his eyes. "You're thinking about kissing me. And you want me to stop deducing you."

"I never want you to stop deducing me. God, do you have any idea what it's like when you look at people like that, like they're the most fascinating thing in the universe? It's like being torn apart and being put together at the same time."

Sherlock bites his lip.

"What are you thinking about?" John asks.

"You. Breathing."

John suddenly lets go of him and steps back. "God, I forgot. Sorry, Sherlock, I-- Just a minute." He goes to rummage around his coat pockets and soon presents Sherlock with two tablets. "Take these with water."

"Back to doctor mode, then?" Sherlock sounds lightly bitter.

John looks at him sternly. "Sherlock, I can't even begin to try to do this if you keep on with this running commentary all the time."

"'This'?"

"Whatever this is."

"You used a future tense, 'to try to do this', implying that you intend to take this relationship to somewhere it's never been."

"That's exactly what I mean. Enough with the analyzing. Now that it's been made clear that there is an actual possibility that we might not have to ignore certain things, I mean to see what sort of clusterfuck I might be able to make of my life. I need to sort these things out and it's hard when you're dissecting me all the time."

Sherlock swallows the tablets with water and puts his now empty glass on the table next to the bed. "I'm in love with you," he says.

The tension suddenly disappears from John's shoulders, making him look smaller. "I know," he breathes out.

Sherlock doesn't move, just watches him with an expectant look.

"One day, I think, I'll be able to say the same to you. When it's not weighed down with so much other stuff."

Sherlock's lips curl to a slight smile. "In a way, I think, you've already been saying it to me for a long time."

John smiles.

"Come on," John then says and offers his hand. Sherlock takes it and they head back to bed. John gingerly adjusts the pillows back to underneath the cast and shuts off the light.

The darkness is now somehow less heavy.

--- The End ---