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Chapter Text

John Watson was growing tired of staring at his face in the mirror each morning. Tired of the contrast between his unguarded visage and that which he showed the world.

His face, fresh from sleep, or lack of sleep depending on the day, showed a man brought low. Exhausted, sad, numb, still grieving long past the appropriate amount of time to spend on a flatmate.

He lathered up his face, bringing his razor up to touch skin, before lowering it back down, letting it clatter into the sink. Perhaps it was time for a buffer, something else to focus on rather than the depressed shell of a man currently staring back at him.

He considered a beard, but that was a bit too on the nose, wasn’t it? ‘You already have a beard, don’t you?’ a familiar baritone seemed to whisper in his ear.

“Well, I couldn’t go on as I had, could I? I need something to live for, something to pass the hours.”

‘Not a very flattering description of your girlfriend. Something to pass the time.’

“At least she’s alive.”

‘Again, a glowing review.’

“More than I can say about you.”

The voice failed to respond. John picked up the razor and began shaving his cheeks, chin and neck, but not below his nose. He’d try something new. A mustache wouldn’t fix the hurt that caused his face to grimace throughout the day, but perhaps it would serve to obfuscate the truth. A truth John wasn’t fully ready to admit to himself, let alone the world.

Chapter Text

Sherlock had sensory issues. As a child, fabric was a constant source of consternation for him. Clothing was too itchy, too staticky, too warm, too close to his neck, too tight around his ankles and wrists, too stifling, sweaty, course, scratchy, ughhh!

Little Sherlock’s clothing felt awful and he was often in a foul mood, but he had yet to connect the two. Even at that age, his body was something that got him places, something to ignore until it could no longer be ignored. It was his mind, his thoughts that were really him, not his confusing body. His body that was constantly taking in too much or too little stimuli, depending on the sense in question.

As an older child, he began to tolerate different fabrics better. They helped define which aspects of himself he would show the world. School uniforms, horribly uncomfortable, but rightfully so. It wouldn’t do to get too comfortable at school, to let his guard down. They truly were uniforms, special armor to get him through the day until he could come home and rip off the mask of social acceptability.

As a teenager, he was past the point of trying to be socially acceptable. Had failed too many times to be like his peers, or liked by them, for that matter. He wore what he liked and what set him apart. He embraced the taunts, internalized them. Dressed like a freak, a weirdo, a poofter. He found the blackest, clunkiest boots possible, the most worn, ripped jeans possible and then ripped them some more. Tight tanks and tee shirts that no straight boy would dream of wearing, and smudged eyeliner. He added glittery face and body makeup when he went out to clubs, drugged up so that the cacophony of lights, colors, noises and smells could fade into a swirl of background insignificance while he moved his body to EDM and tried to shut his mind off.

It was in clothes like these that he sauntered up to a crime scene one night. He tapped one Officer Lestrade on the shoulder and pointed to a man in the crowd. “He did it.” The man in question saw a gutter punk pointing him out and took off running, Officer Lestrade close behind. After a couple more impromptu solved cases, Lestrade told Sherlock that if he wanted anyone to take him seriously, he needed a suit, a shower and normal-sized pupils.

One night, Mycroft Holmes woke up to a knocking on his door. He opened it to find his little brother, who he hadn’t seen in nearly a year, shivering and fidgeting. “I need some clothes for a job.”

Mycroft’s tailor chose fabrics that Sherlock liked the feel of, cut them in a smart, modern line and sent him to a shirt maker. The shirt maker cut the fabric to fit Sherlock like a second skin and agreed to be generous with the fit around his wrists.

It was in clothes like these that Sherlock met a friend of Mike Stamford’s in a lab of St. Bart’s. A man in scratchy, hideous jumpers. A man in a uniform of normalcy. Hiding aspects of himself from the world at large, but not from the world’s only consulting detective. Sherlock immediately liked the feel of him.

Chapter Text

Heavy the head, as the saying goes. But, as anyone halfway intelligent knows, real power doesn’t lie beneath a crown. Real power is quiet, nondescript, it moves in the shadows. Real power is not the shark swimming around flashing its sharp teeth.

You think you know what I’m going to say. That the real power lies in the thing everyone is looking at and not even seeing. The power lies in the water surrounding all of the sharks, the fish, the plankton, surrounding everything.

You’re wrong. The water is important, it’s vast and powerful and people don’t notice how it surrounds them and carries them along, but… What is the water when you control the currents, the weather? When your decisions affect how the whole system works or breaks down? When you dipping your toe in causes a tsunami halfway around the world?

These weathermen, they are powerful, but they are many, and you’re still not seeing the whole picture. Who has the ear of the weathermen? Who whispers like the cold east wind? Who rages in the atmosphere unbeknownst to all the little goldfish swimming below?

I do. You don’t know my name and you never will. I’m the nondescript man moving through the shadows. I carry an umbrella not out of caution, nor because of the unpredictability of the weather, but because I know what’s coming.

Chapter Text

Sherlock tended to discount the sentimental side of things not because he was emotionally shallow, but because his emotions were so unwieldy. He felt things strongly, but to try to label or examine how he felt? Let alone express that to others… That took him into the confusing, murky depths of his psyche best left buried in the mud at the bottom of the moat surrounding his mind palace.

Some people have a knack for stirring things up, though. Some army doctors, in particular. Stirring up all kinds of feelings. Excitement, jealousy, suppressed lust, hope, insecurity, fear.

These things kept popping up despite Sherlock’s best attempts to shove them back down. He tried preempting these emotional ramblings by reciting mantras of simple information, he would go over and over the periodic table, recite chemical equations, create mental diagrams of every bone in the human foot. But, then he would slip and think about John’s foot, how he likes to go barefoot at home. The way their feet would occasionally brush when they faced each other in their chairs or sat at the kitchen table. A simple glancing touch causing his face to feel hot, he hoped he didn’t visibly blush. So embarrassing.

“What are you thinking?”

Sherlock startled out of his position on the sofa, sitting straight up and feeling caught out.

“Why?”

“You looked like you were thinking hard, I wonder what’s running through your brain sometimes.”

“Too many things to explain.” Sherlock waves a dismissive hand in John’s direction.

“Try me.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It’s personal. Why do you insist on asking me personal questions?”

“I didn’t know that I was asking a personal question, but now I really want to know. Who were you thinking about?”

“Who says it’s a who?”

“You just did. You wouldn’t try to deflect if it wasn’t a who.”

“Nothing. Just a cold case.”

“Cold cases don’t make you so hot under the collar.”

“What do you want from me, John?”

John licks his lips and looks away. “Nothing. Sorry, I shouldn’t have pried. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“It’s night already?” Great, he’d been thinking about John’s feet for several hours, then.

“Yes, Sherlock, goodnight.”

“Goodnight, John.”

———

Sometime later, Sherlock realized that he had fallen asleep as he began dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because logic was thrown out the window. He was at Bart’s, trying to look through a microscope at a blood sample, but he couldn’t focus, things kept going dark and blurry. He sat up and tried to look at Molly across the room, but a dark fog was filling the lab, obscuring her face.

“Sherlock, it’s not that complicated, I see the way you glance at him, when you think no one’s looking. You should just tell him.”

“What are you talking about? Why is it foggy in here?”

“It doesn’t have to be foggy. You’re making it foggy.” Instead of Molly’s voice, it was Mycroft responding to him now.

“That makes no sense. I don’t control the weather.”

“It’s not weather, mate. It’s your own mind.” Lestrade’s voice seemed to come from behind.

Sherlock turned, arms out, feeling blindly but his hands caught on nothing. Suddenly he didn’t know up from down. He seemed to be floating and he knew instinctively that the space he was in was much larger than the lab.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Sherlock. How’s the new experiment coming along?” Mike Stamford asked.

“What experiment?”

“Oh, you know, friendship, sentiment, attraction, love. John. The whole John thing.”

“I can’t see anything. I don’t know where I am. Can you help me?”

“Sorry, no good at that sort of thing. I have an old friend, though. Sherlock, this is Doctor John Watson. John, meet Sherlock Holmes.”

“John?”

“Here, use mine.” John hands him a torch. It’s so bright that it blinds him, but as he blinks his eyes back open, he finds himself back in the lab, just him and John.

“Thank you. I couldn’t see a thing.”

“You’re welcome.” And John smiles. It’s warm and open and Sherlock knows that he could say anything right now and that it would be alright. But, he finds that he doesn’t need to say anything. So he doesn’t, he just takes a step forward and kisses John on the lips. It’s better than anything he could have imagined, he can’t actually feel the kiss on his lips, but he feels it in his chest, growing like a warm stream of sunlight throughout his body.

———

Sherlock wakes as he falls off the sofa, tangled up in a blanket. John must have come back downstairs at some point and covered him up to keep him warm. Sherlock is cursing and trying to struggle his way out of the blanket when John enters and flips the switch on a lamp. “I heard a thump. Are you okay?”

“Fine, I’m fine, I just fell.” Sherlock succeeds in throwing off the blanket before registering that there is warm liquid trickling down his forehead.

“Oh, damn, Sherlock you hit your head on the coffee table, let me…”

And then John is there, kneeling next to him, stripping off his vest and holding it to Sherlock’s head. Sherlock stares at John’s bare chest. He blinks and then raises his eyes to John’s seeing the concern in evidence there.

“You.”

“What?”

“You asked who I was thinking about earlier. I was thinking about you. Specifically your feet and the way they feel brushing against my feet, and how if that feels so amazing, what would it feel like to brush against other body parts. That came out dirtier than I intended. I just meant like, hands, like the way you’re holding my head right now. And lips, I think about your lips and your tongue. Okay, I guess it is kind of dirty, my thoughts, about you and your, well, your parts.”

“You were thinking about me and touching my body?”

“Ye- well- yess.”

“Fuck.”

“I’m sorry if that’s not good, I mean, if you think it’s not good…”

“Sherlock, I love the way it feels when our feet touch. I love feeling your shoulder against mine in an elevator. I love the way you grab my wrist to get me to follow when it’s time to chase a suspect. I love it all. I love you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. I think about touching you all the time, in a very dirty way.”

“Okay, well, that’s good… you could, you know, now.”

John closes the distance and he can really feel it on his lips this time, but also in his chest, it feels like his heart is going to beat right through his chest cavity. John groans against his mouth and another body part begins to take an interest in the proceedings. They stop to breathe and John rests his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“Ow.”

“Oh shit, your head, let me see, hmm, the bleeding has stopped, I think we can make do with a couple of butterfly plasters.”

“Later. Bed now. I want to brush some parts together.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, God yes.”

They pull themselves off the floor and begin stumbling towards Sherlock’s bedroom when John stubs his toe on something. “Ow, fuck!”

“Come on, John.” Sherlock says while continuing to drag him towards the bedroom. “I’ll kiss it better.”

“You really have a thing for my feet, don’t you?”

“I don’t know, let’s go find out.”

There’s lots of laughing and groaning and rubbing various parts against other parts. It’s messy and lovely, and things might get complicated, but Sherlock has a feeling that things won’t be so murky from now on.

Chapter Text

John tried to go through some of Sherlock’s belongings once, several months after the funeral.

He got hung up in the wardrobe, running his fingers over the clothes that had touched the skin. Holding them to his face in a vain attempt to recapture the smell of him. His eye caught on something grey on the top shelf.

That hat. The hat that had become part of his public image, but had nothing to do with the man John knew.

John held it, turned it around in his hands. Stupid hat. It was not even an apt symbol. A deerstalker. Sherlock didn’t hunt deer, he stalked predators and they stalked him back.

If anything, Sherlock was the deer, getting caught out when his natural curiosity left him exposed. Wide-eyed when something or someone confused him. Beautiful and ethereal and skittish.

John threw the hat back on the shelf and closed the doors. He couldn’t do this, not today, maybe not ever.

Chapter Text

Sherlock left John’s wedding and walked until he could no longer hear the music. Then he tore the tie from around his neck. He hated ties, hated feeling restricted in that way. He discarded it on the ground, not like he’d ever need it again. He’d worn his costume, played his part, now he needed to get out before he suffocated.

He had a morbid thought that, in a way, planning John’s wedding to Mary was like planning his own funeral. One last big, flowery send-off before his best friend started his new life and Sherlock was left behind.

Sherlock shed his suit jacket as well, not caring where it landed. He felt strangely free. No entanglements, no one to stubbornly tether him down. He felt like he could just keep walking and disappear into the night.

But, a familiar black car slid to a stop next to him. He considered his options, but couldn’t find the energy to play games and simply opened the door and slid inside. “In the neighborhood, Mycroft?”

“If you prefer. I thought you might need a ride home.”

“I was enjoying the fresh air.”

“It will give me peace of mind to see you home.”

Sherlock knew exactly why Mycroft was giving him a ride. He feared a danger night. Just thinking about it triggered a little itch in the crook of his arm. He had nothing at the flat, but drugs were easy to come by. He needn’t even hit an atm and go see someone. All he would have to do is enter the right person’s DM’s with the appropriate emoji and he could have his usual waiting at his doorstep before he got home.

“Sherlock… you don’t have to go home tonight. You could come to mine. It might not be wise to be alone right now.”

“If I had stayed alone to begin with, I wouldn’t have this problem.”

“That’s the closest you’ve come to admitting your feelings for Dr. Watson.”

“No it isn’t. You weren’t at the reception. I gave a lovely best man’s speech. Not a dry eye in the house.”

“Sherlock…”

“Mycroft, don’t. I could put on a reassuring little show and convince you that you have nothing to worry about, but I haven’t the energy. I used everything I had to get through this day and I’m not wasting anything more on this pointless conversation.”

While he’d been talking to Mycroft, he’d had a hand on the phone in his pocket and there was a delivery even now on its way to Baker Street.

He had nothing left to give. He needed to take something instead. Something to provide some mindless oblivion. Something to dull his senses, to slow his brain. He needed to stop thinking about his feelings, about the man he loved being married, having a child with his new wife. The sheepish, pitying look John gave him after receiving the news. Yeah, let’s see how things ‘don’t change’ now, with a baby on the way. Sorry mate, you’re no longer second priority now, you’re an afterthought, someone your kid will look at in your wedding album someday and have no memory of. An old friend, someone you used to know.

It’s what he needed. Just one vial of liquid. A syringe to pierce the skin and provide deliverance, a bit of grace before he had to face himself in the mirror again.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes, little brother?”

“Can I stay in your guest bedroom tonight?”

“You can stay as long as you need.”

“There’s a package waiting at my flat that will need to be disposed of.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you.”

“No, brother mine, thank you.”

Chapter Text

“John, you don’t have to go.”

“We always go on her class trips with her, I’m not missing this one.”

“She doesn’t have to go. We could plan something different that day.”

“She’s been looking forward to it. She’s decided to add marine biologist to her list of career possibilities.”

“She’d get over it. She’s resilient.”

“I don’t want her to have to get over it. She’d have no idea why I don’t want to go, she’s too young to know why.”

“John… here’s the thing. I don’t want you to have to go. Hell, I don’t want me to have to go. But, what really worries me is going there together. Going back to that place, that time in our relationship… What if it brings all of those feelings back up?”

“Sherlock, no. We’ve been over this. I’m way past blaming you for any of it. My anger was misdirected. You didn’t deserve anything that I put you through back then. We’re going as a family. We’re not going to run from our demons. We’re going to create new memories with our daughter and, someday, when she knows the significance of that place to this family, she’ll have good things to look back on, too.”

There was a finality to John’s proclamation that brokered no argument. So, Sherlock kept his next thought to himself (that taking Rosie on a fun day at the aquarium was akin to going for a picnic on Mary’s grave.)

———

The day of Rosie’s field trip dawned grey and rainy. John stood in front of the living room window, holding a long cold cup of tea and staring unseeingly at the raindrops trailing down the panes. Sherlock came up to John, took the tea from him, putting it aside, and wrapped his arms around his partner, kissing him on the cheek.

“Are you sure? We can still back out. We could take her to the seashore to look at tide pools instead. Make a whole long weekend of it.”

“That sounds lovely, Sherlock, we should do that, but not today. Today, we’re taking our little girl to the aquarium.”

Sherlock took a fortifying breath and straightened his posture. Into battle it was, then.

“Daddy! Papa Lock! It’s time to go!”

Rosie ran to the door and pulled on her wellies with the rainbows and the matching raincoat.

John cleared his throat and turned with a smile. Let’s go, Ro. Can’t keep the fish waiting.”

“They’re not waiting, Daddy. It’s not like they only start swimming when we enter the room.”

“She’s one eye roll away from being you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No, I really don’t.” John replied while looking into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock blushed and looked away.

“What’s an eye roll? Is it like an unagi roll?”

“Well, actually Watson, you can use the liquid from tuna eyeballs to make a delicious sauce for maguro nigiri and the eyeballs themselves are considered quite a delicacy.”

John performed an eye roll himself as he followed his strange little family down the stairs.

———

That night, after performing the standard bedtime rituals, Sherlock came back downstairs.

“I think today went rather well, don’t you?” Sherlock stopped talking when he realized that John was looking down at Rosie’s drawing of a large azure starfish next to a table filled with sushi. The starfish stared at the sushi and the sushi stared back. John had tears in his eyes. “Oh, John.”

John turned to him, sniffling. “No, Sherlock, these are happy tears. I just… I feel so lucky, so lucky Sherlock, that we have this. We get to have this! You, me, Rosie, this life together. You know that I turned my anger on you at the time, I’m so sorry for that…”

“You don’t have to…”

“Please, I need to tell you this.” Sherlock nodded for him to continue. “I turned my anger on you, but I was truly angry at myself.”

“Whatever for?”

“I felt like I manifested it. Ever since I found out that Mary shot you… I never forgave her, not really… I was so angry at her. She knew what your death did to me the first time, she saw how broken I was, and yet, she did it again. She killed you.”

“I didn’t die John.”

“Not permanently, but yes, you did die, your heart stopped, the doctors gave up and then you clawed your way back. She killed you and I couldn’t help thinking that it should have been her. That if one of you had to die, it should have been her. And then, that day at the aquarium, she did. It was like that bullet she put out into the world ricocheted back on her because I wished it. I thought it into reality. I felt like I hated her to death… Rosie’s mother… I did it.”

Sherlock pulls John into his arms. “You didn’t do it, it’s not your fault.”

“I know that, I know that now, but, oh I was angry, always so angry, I was angry until I realized that all I had to do was let go and let myself love you. That that’s all I ever had to do.”

“We are lucky. We have each other, we have Watson, but luck goes both ways, John. You were unlucky enough to get shot so that we were lucky enough for Mike Stamford to introduce us. I was lucky enough to come back from the dead and unlucky enough to do it on the night of your engagement. You were lucky enough to find someone to love while you mourned me and unlucky that she was a liar, but lucky that your daughter came out of it. I was unlucky enough to be your best man, but lucky enough to survive a bullet from your bride. Fate turns on a dime, John, but it brought us together and gave us a family and that’s all that matters in the end.”

“You’re a good man, Sherlock Holmes. Let’s go to bed. We’ll talk about our daughter’s new interest in eating eyeballs tomorrow.”

“Honestly, John. As long as they’re fully cooked and not human, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Chapter Text

John lectures Sherlock repeatedly about being too reckless. Haring off after danger with no regard for his safety or the feelings of anyone who cares about his safety. He was grudgingly apologetic sometimes but he never changed, never even promised to change. Didn’t seem to understand why John cared so much.

John didn’t know the half of it. He hadn’t known Sherlock back in his youth, when he threw his body around with the care of a chips baggy. Threw it into fists and feet learning boxing and martial arts. Threw it around the dance floors of dozens of different clubs, grinding shamelessly against complete strangers to a throbbing beat. Threw chemicals at it by smoking, popping, snorting and injecting nearly any substance on offer. Threw it at the feet of anyone offering cash or another fix or just a bed to stay in when it was too much trouble to find his way home. Young Sherlock was a kinetic whirlwind who cheated death on the daily with the reckless abandon of a young, neuroqueer man with a prefrontal cortex that was not yet fully developed running away from his own differences, peer rejection and terrible self esteem.

So, on balance, Sherlock was more careful about his well-being these days. Less courting destruction and more gently flirting with it. What he always tried to be careful with though was his heart. He hadn’t thrown his heart around as a youth, but he had cautiously offered it once or twice. Experiences that taught him that it might just be safer to pretend he didn’t have one.

Sherlock marvels when John calls him reckless. He, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, who only participates in street fights when absolutely necessary, who hasn’t been clubbing in years, who restricts himself to nicotine patches and the occasional cigarette, who hasn’t had sex with anyone in who knows how long. He’s practically a monk. What more could John expect?

But then John became particularly irate one day when Sherlock disappeared from a crime scene without a word before limping back holding his own scarf against a bleeding thigh wound.

“Lestrade, the suspect is handcuffed to a fire escape in an alley two streets south.” He fumbled a bloody knife out of his coat and offered it to the D.I. “The murder weapon.”

John just stood there. Staring daggers at his flatmate.

“Not to worry, John. Just a scratch. You can have it stitched up in no time.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not this time, Sherlock. I just, I can’t… I won’t… I can’t keep caring when you don’t give a toss! You’re on your own this time.” John turns and walks off, leaving a surprised Sherlock and a slightly uncomfortable Greg behind.

“Do you want me to call a wagon or give you a ride to A&E?”

Sherlock tears his eyes from a swiftly retreating John Watson and turns to Lestrade. “A ride, I suppose.”

Greg and Sherlock ride in silence for a bit before Greg says, “Might wanna stop for some flowers after you get stitched up.”

“Why would I purchase flowers?”

“Because John seems pretty shirty over your performance back there. I always brought flowers to my wife when she was pissed off at me.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, she’s my ex, so not as much as I hoped.”

“He’ll come round. He always does.”

“I’m not so sure about that, mate. John rags on you a lot, but it’s usually in a fond way. This looked pretty serious.”

Greg pulls up to hospital and turns to Sherlock. “Just try ‘n see it from his perspective, mate. There’s only so many times you can watch a person self-destruct before you have to think about your own preservation.”

“You’ve known me longer than John and you’re still here.”

“Yeah, well, I still need your brain for my job security, plus we’re just friends, Sherlock, it’s not like with John.”

“We’re friends? I thought we were colleagues, one of whom occasionally arrests the other.”

“I consider you a friend, Sherlock. And as a friend, I’ve gotta tell you, I think John considers you as more than that. And I really wouldn’t want to see you two lose that because you can’t spare two seconds to shout for backup.”

———

Sherlock considers Lestrade’s words as he watches an F1 doctor slowly and gracelessly suture his thigh wound. He’s taken John’s skill and bedside manner for granted. He’s taken a lot for granted, it seems. The nature of his relationship with John, the extent of John’s patience with him, the amount that John values Sherlock’s life and limbs.

John has continually tried to confer value on Sherlock’s life, from that first night together when he shot a cabbie to keep Sherlock from gambling it away. By not accepting that regard, has he been throwing it back in John’s face this whole time?

When Sherlock limps up the stairs of 221 B a few hours later, it’s with a very unique bouquet and a plan to be more reckless with his heart than he’s been in a long time.

He spots John’s shoes just inside the door. Went to a pub, probably three drinks, tipsy not pissed. No sounds from the loo, he’s already gone to bed. Sherlock continues up the stairs to John’s room and knocks on John’s door. He hears a broken snore and knocks again. A sleepy, “What?” He knocks once more and hears John fumbling to turn on his lamp and a short stomp to the door. He opens it, “What?! Sherlock, I was sleeping, it’s something some of us mortals have to do…” John trails off as he sees Sherlock thrust a bouquet towards him.

“I got you flowers.”

“You got me flowers?” John looks confused.

“Yes.” Sherlock waggles them until John reaches out to take them.

John takes a look at the floral mishmash in his hands. “I’m no florist, but isn’t this a rather random assortment?”

“On the contrary, it’s very deliberate. I chose each bloom for the message it conveys according to Victorian flower language. It’s like a coded message.”

“Oh. Sherlock, I don’t speak historical flower code.”

“Allow me to interpret.” Sherlock points to one flower and begins, “These are gladiolus, meaning armed and ready, like you. This is sweet briar which means ‘I wound to heal.’ Apt for an army doctor and for a man who shot someone to save me. This one is gentian, a symbol of intrinsic worth, because you’ve always seen worth in me that I find hard to see in myself. This one is a green carnation, a symbol of homosexuality, and moss rosebud is for a confession of love. Cape jasmine is for ecstasy and transport, because I have hopes that we could bring ecstasy to each other’s transport. But, regardless, there is peach blossom here meaning my heart is thine and finally, cedar, I live for thee, because I’ve disregarded my transport often, but it’s obviously of value to you, so I’ll do my best to be more careful about keeping it alive.”

Sherlock finishes and waits for John to speak. When the silence drags on for at least three seconds, Sherlock jumps in again, “I had to go to four different florists, surreptitiously raid a wedding bouquet, scour Chinatown for the cape jasmine, and a Greek faith healer for the gentian. I’m sorry I had to wake you up, it took quite some time and effort.”

John plucks the moss rosebud and peach blossom from the bouquet and offers them to Sherlock, “My answer.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” John pulls Sherlock in by the front of his shirt and gives him a kiss. “I also have high hopes for the ecstasy of our transport.”

Sometimes recklessness pays off and sometimes you learn to rein it in because someone gives you a very good reason to be more careful.

Chapter Text

Dead weight. The phrase came unbidden and unwelcome into John’s mind as he clutched Sherlock in a fireman’s carry and staggered downstream. He wasn’t sure of the geography, but figured that if he followed the river, he would come to civilization eventually. He just hoped to get there before the adrenaline slipped from his system and the flood of energy that was carrying him and ten stone of consulting detective to safety ended.

They’d had a plan. There were grappling hooks and netting. He had a flash of fear when Sherlock and Moriarty went over the edge, but it was nothing compared to the pure terror that shot through him as he leaned over the cliff, expecting Sherlock looking for a hand up, and instead found a shower of broken rocks, wind-whipped ropes and two men falling through the mist towards the roiling water below.

“Sherlock!” His voice echoed in the void.

There was a splash far below, but there were also streaks of red on a boulder jutting out of the rapids. Which man hit the water and which the rock? And had either a chance of survival?

It took too long to run down the path. Agonizing minutes that Sherlock didn’t have. Even if he hit the water… he would have been knocked out… drowning… lungs filling… hypothermia… “Gahhhh! Sherlock!”

John finally reached the boulder, already being rinsed of blood by the drenching mist of the falls. Nearby, snagged on a dead tree… face down…

John splashed through the water, turning the body over. Moriarty’s lifeless eyes stared up at him, blood still weakly flowing from a gash in his head that showed pale bone, his neck clearly broken, his head cocked grotesquely. John let go of the body and it began to float away, freed from the snag.

John splashed back to the shore and scanned the water. Nothing. He began running downstream, desperately scanning for any trace of the detective. No no no… “Sherlock!”

John ran further and still saw nothing. Then he came to a bend and stared at the shore opposite where on the pebbly beach… oh god. John half swam, half scrambled and flung himself next to Sherlock’s motionless form. He rolled the man onto his back and began chest compressions. Sherlock coughed, sputtered and expelled two lungs full of water, but his eyes remained closed and he was still unconscious. His pulse was weak and his breathing slow. His lips were blue and he was so cold. He needed shelter. He needed to get out of his wet clothes. John hoisted the larger man onto his shoulders and ran.

As John’s pace slowed, as his exhaustion began to catch up with him, he started talking to Sherlock.

“Come on. We can’t stop now. You can’t have survived a bloody fall off a bloody cliff to just die now. That’s just unsporting. That’d be cruel. To me, to Mrs. Hudson, to Molly and Lestrade, even to Mycroft. But, especially to me. You have to survive long enough for me to yell at you, at least. I deserve that much, you daft berk. I get to tell you that I was right, that it was too fucking dangerous. It was a stupid plan, Sherlock! Bugger!” John tripped on a rock and went down hard on one knee. He tried to stand back up, but the weight was just too much, dead weight…

Then he saw it, a curl of smoke rising above the trees. Chimney smoke, not far. John gently laid Sherlock down on the ground. “I’ll be right back. Don’t fucking die. Don’t you dare fucking die while I’m gone.”

He ran towards the smoke, finding a path wending from the river and following it to a cabin amongst the trees. He pounded on the door.

A young man opened the door. “Was ist mit dir passiert?”

“Please, my friend, he’s hurt.” John gestures towards the river. “Please come. We need help.”

“Englisch? You need help?”

“Yes, come, please come.”

The man followed John, helped him carry Sherlock to the cabin, helped him peel off Sherlock’s sodden layers of clothing and tuck him under the blankets of the cabin’s one bed. Then he gestured at John. “Du zitterst. Deine kleidung.” He mimed unbuttoning his own shirt. “You too. Unter der decke.”

John took his meaning and was grateful when the man turned his back so that John could strip down and climb into bed with Sherlock. John’s teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. He grasped Sherlock’s wrist and felt his pulse strengthening. He wrapped himself around Sherlock’s body. His breath sounded good. It was going to be okay. John let the exhaustion wash over him, his eyes too heavy to hold open, no matter how hard he tried to focus on Sherlock’s face.

Chapter Text

Greg held the crime scene tape up while Sherlock and John stepped under. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock held up a hand.

“I would like to do an initial sweep of the scene before contaminating my mind with whatever specious theories you and your underlings may have dreamt up.”

“I was just gonna give you the particulars…” Greg started.

“I already swept the scene!” Anderson started in.

Sherlock held up his hand again.

“But…” Anderson tried.

“Bup bup.” Sherlock intoned.

Sherlock walked away, eyes scanning the area. Greg rolled his eyes and failed to fully conceal an upward twitch of the lips. Anderson stalked towards the evidence van to sulk.

John stayed with Greg, watching Sherlock do his thing. The detective was circling a puddle with a skeptical look on his face. In never failed to charm John when Sherlock pulled faces at inanimate objects.

“Getting settled at the flat?” Greg asked him, watching John watch Sherlock.

“Mmm, sort of. Although things tend to get unsettled around my flatmate.” John gestured to where Sherlock was lying with his face an inch from the grass, gazing to the side in concentration.”

“Yeah, Sherlock unsettles most people. You seem pretty calm around him, though.”

“Well, I’ve been in war zones. Hanging around one Oxbridge misanthrope seems pretty tame in comparison.”

“Uh huh.”

Sherlock was now on tiptoes, gazing through the entrance of a bird house.

“Sherlock’s not really one to have people hanging around, you know.” Greg went on.

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve only known him for a few weeks.”

Sherlock was now on all fours sniffing at a chips bag. His rear was facing the two men and Greg watched John watch the fabric of Sherlock’s finely tailored trousers stretch over his arse. John coughed to clear his throat and licked his lips.

“So, Sherlock hasn’t had many, um, relationships, er, friendships?” John asked, his eyes still glued to his flatmate.

“Not that I know of.” Greg watched Sherlock trotting back to them.

Sherlock quickly spouted off his observations, making some truly impressive vaults of logic that Greg was sure would make sense if the other man slowed down enough to explain the particulars. “So you see, it was the cousin’s ex-husband, obviously.”

“Brilliant!” John beamed at Sherlock while reaching out to clutch his forearm. Sherlock glanced down at John’s hand on his arm and a slight flush showed on his cheekbones.

“Okay.” Said Greg. “We’ll check it out. I’ll call if we run into any questions.”

John and Sherlock turned to walk away. A bounce in their steps, their hands brushing against each other’s slightly as they strode shoulder to shoulder. John turned to say something to Sherlock before they both broke out in giggles.

Anderson walked up to Greg. “Did he solve it?”

“Pretty easy to see when you know what to look for.”

Anderson looked mutinous, while Greg tore his eyes from the retreating couple with a smirk on his face and clapped his hands together. “Let’s go pick up the cousin’s ex-husband!”

Chapter Text

John walks into the kitchen rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He is not expecting half a butchered pig to be laid out on the kitchen table, a consulting detective in safety goggles and a plastic poncho flogging it repeatedly with a riding crop. John blinks twice, then maneuvers around Sherlock to reach the kettle.

“This for a case or are you just taking out your frustrations?” John asks, filling the kettle at the sink.

“Of course it’s for a case. Will you please hand me that whip?” Sherlock gestures towards the object curled up on the draining board.

John sighs and places the whip in Sherlock’s outstretched hand. “Can we please keep the sex toys off the place I dry my mugs?”

“Who says these are sex toys? They’re equestrian tack. Besides, they are unused and won’t soil the dishes.”

“Looks like they’re getting some use now.” John flinches as Sherlock deals a sharp lash to his porcine assistant.

“A man was found in a horse stable, restrained with lead ropes, on all fours with a bridle in his mouth, beaten to death. I’m attempting to identify which riding implements were used in his murder and if any are missing from the tack room.”

“You sure it wasn’t a sex thing?” John asked as Sherlock draws back his arm for another THWACK.

“I can’t be sure, but the man was still wearing his trousers and there was no evidence of… release.”

“Okay.” John tries to unhear Sherlock saying ‘release,’ but only succeeds in replaying the word over and over in his head in Sherlock’s deep voice. He shakes his head, trying to clear it.

“Something in your ear?” Sherlock gazes at him with eyebrows raised.

“I’m going to take a shower.” John feels the need to retreat from the kitchen sooner rather than later.

“What about your tea?” Sherlock gestures at the bubbling kettle.

“Mmm, never mind, lost my, um, thirst.” John replies from the hallway. John is actually very thirsty.

John tries to calm himself. It was too much for first thing in the morning. A dead pig, Sherlock, hitting, lashing, flogging like some bacon dominatrix with beads of sweat forming on his forehead from the exertion… fuck.

He turns on the shower and steps under the water. John is now beginning to sport a prominent erection. He tries not to think about how he finds the idea of Sherlock in a dominant physical role incredibly arousing. You really shouldn’t wank in the shower to fantasies of your flatmate, stripped to the waist in a dirty barn, sweat dripping down his muscular torso, an intensity in his eyes as he whacks…

“Mmm” John trails his fingertips down his chest and abdomen.

and whacks

“Ooh” John puts a hand around his cock.

and pounds

“fuck…” And slides a thumb over his slit.

Blow after blow

“Jesus…” He begins wanking in earnest, picturing Sherlock with a paddle.

Beating

“Oh god…” He speeds his hand along his shaft.

and flogging

“Nnnguh…” John keeps his hand steady now and pumps into his fist and imagines Sherlock’s bare hand simply…

Spanking

“Uh, uh, uh…”

Slapping

“Mmm, mmm, uh, oh, ah, ah, ah…”

and grabbing John’s hair

“Jesus, yesss…”

grasping his neck in a stranglehold

“Oooooh, god, ooooh, fuck.” John thrusts into his fist and comes hard, his release shooting onto his own chest and belly before being rinsed off by the steaming water. John wishes he could rinse his mind clean with as much ease. A bit not good, wanking to visions of your flatmate. Your ‘married to my work,’ possibly asexual best friend. A bit not good.

When John eventually leaves the bathroom, after having used all the hot water while having a minor sexual identity crisis, it’s to find that Sherlock has left the flat. Probably had a pig related breakthrough, John thinks.

He notices that the berk’s been using John’s laptop again. Sherlock’s left the browser open. Open to a kink blog about impact play. John stares at the title.

A Beginner’s Guide to Impact Play: Thuddy vs. Stingy

Fuck…

Chapter Text

Why had John assumed that they were sex toys? Had he used them as such in the past? Nothing Sherlock had previously deduced about John’s sex life with various girlfriends suggested anything kinky. He hadn’t really delved that deeply into John’s past, though. It might be worth a look.

Sherlock waited until the next day when John was at work before climbing the stairs to John’s room and opening the door. John wouldn’t like him snooping, Sherlock knew, but his curiosity was piqued. Sherlock had never been good at quelling his curiosity.

There were condoms and lube in John’s bedside drawers, but no sex toys. Nothing of interest in his wardrobe. Sherlock peeked underneath the bed and spotted an old shoebox. Sherlock rubbed his hands in anticipation before lifting the lid. Oh… it was just old pictures and mementos, nothing kinky. Although, Sherlock’s eyes were drawn to one particular snapshot.

It was John, actually it was Captain Watson, shirtless in the desert sun, dog tags glinting between two well developed pecs, above very well defined abs. John had been, well, shredded.

Sherlock struggled to swallow. Why was his mouth producing so much saliva? John was fit. Is this what he kept hidden underneath his hideous jumpers?

Sherlock closed the shoebox and placed it back in its spot underneath the bed, but the snapshot was still in his hand. He decided it merited further study.

Sherlock went downstairs and locked himself in his bedroom. John had been in a position of authority in the military, did this translate to his sex life? Did Captain Watson emerge in the bedroom? Sherlock imagined John in his fatigues carrying a flogger. He was pacing back and forth slapping the flogger into his opposite hand in a show of threatened discipline.

Hmm… there was something to that. Sherlock was no virgin, but sex was often anxiety inducing for him. Giving up control, trying to be in the moment instead of in his head. But, the idea of giving all control to someone he trusted? Someone like John? An intriguing prospect.

Sherlock also despised gentle touch, it made his skin crawl. But, he couldn’t imagine Captain Watson being too gentle. He would bet that the Captain would show a firm hand… firm body in general, really.

Speaking of firm, staring at the photo of a very ripped John and thinking about his (possibly) dominant tendencies, things were firming up.

He really shouldn’t. John would tell him it’s not on. Pilfering a picture of your flatmate, having lurid fantasies about them. He could just imagine how angry John would be. How would he express that anger, when Sherlock was being such a bad man? He’d deserve it, everything John wanted to give him…

Perhaps John would make him drop and do press ups. Make him work until he was all sweaty and his arms trembled from exertion. Then John would place a combat boot clad foot on his back, pressing him down against the floor.

Sherlock untied his pajama bottoms and released his straining cock from the confines of its black boxer briefs.

John would hold him against the floor, displaying his control, then he’d order Sherlock onto his knees. Sherlock would scramble up, eagerly obeying John’s, no, the Captain’s orders.

He ran his hand up and down his cock, rumbling a throaty moan.

The Captain would order Sherlock to undo John’s zip using only his teeth. Sherlock would comply and John would tell him to put his hands behind his back and open his mouth.

Sherlock spread a drop of precome over the head of his cock and moaned obscenely.

John would stick his big, thick cock into Sherlock’s mouth and tell him to suck. Sherlock would suck and bob his head, trying to take John deeply, his jaw straining against the Captain’s girth, drool dripping from his lips. Then John would grab Sherlock’s hair and hold him still while he fucked down his throat, making him choke.

Sherlock gave himself long, firm, luxurious strokes and placed the photo on the bed so he could slip his other hand beneath his shirt and play with his nipple. “Oooh, John…”

Then John would pull out and Sherlock would gasp for breath. John would order him to strip and toss him a bottle of lube. “Prepare yourself. Make it good.” John would touch himself, still mostly clothed, while he watched a naked, shivering Sherlock work his hole open.

“Fuck… John… Captain… ahhh…”

Sherlock would be three fingers deep in his own arse, writhing and vulnerable when John would catch his arm and still him. “Are you ready?”

“Oh god, yes.”

“I don’t think you’re ready yet.”

“Captain, please, I need…”

“This isn’t about what you need. All fours, right now, arse in the air.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Sherlock would present himself, naked, embarrassed, tingling with anticipation. And John would pick up his flogger. “Count them off.”

Whack

“One!”

Whack, whack, whack.

“Two, three, four!”

John would switch from cheek to cheek, delivering hard, thuddy blows to Sherlock.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pictured John’s angry, domineering, lust-filled eyes. “Oh god, oh god, so good…”

“How many?” John would prompt.

“Seventeen.” Sherlock would answer, breathy and detached, feeling the pain, but also floating parallel to it, feeling the rush of chemicals that turned it to pleasure.

Sherlock’s hand flew over his erection, imagining what a transcendent experience subbing for John might be.

“I think you’re ready now.” And John would grab Sherlock’s throbbing, red arse, before slicking himself up and thrusting in with no warning.

Sherlock imagined John inside of him, both of them panting and sweaty, trembling. “Yes, yes, please fuck me, John, please.”

John would begin thrusting, pounding into Sherlock punishingly. He would pump his hips, harder and harder. Sherlock would squirm and writhe until the angle was just right and then…

“Oh god, fuck, John, John, yes!!!” Sherlock came harder than he could ever remember. In his mind, John was pumping his release deep inside of Sherlock, moaning and grabbing his hips with bruising force.

Sherlock let himself come down for a minute, before stripping off his soiled clothes and wiping his softening cock clean. He felt euphoric. He should probably feel guilty, but what was the point?

If John somehow found out, he’d just beg forgiveness. Maybe fall to his knees…

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s been looking at him differently the last few days. It’s almost as if he knows what John’s done. Things are charged, potentially awkward. He can’t continue like this. John looks at his outfit in the mirror (not too shabby) before going downstairs.

“Sherlock, get dressed.”

“Why?”

“I’m taking you out for dinner and drinks.”

“There’s alcohol in the flat and I could order takeaway. Why should I get dressed? Why should we leave?”

“It’s not about the alcohol, Sherlock. I want to take you out for a drink. Think of it as an experiment.”

“You want to take me out?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll get dressed.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Awkward. Things have become awkward with John. Almost as if John knows what Sherlock’s done. John probably wants to talk about it. Explain why things aren’t like that between them. Reiterate that he, John-not-gay-Watson, is very much not gay, but it’s all fine, everything is fine, everything is always just fine and not at all gay. Boring.

Sherlock puts on his newest suit, a deep blue Scabal with a slim trouser that could almost be mistaken for a tuxedo if styled differently. He chooses a pale periwinkle shirt, tailored with not a centimeter to spare around the chest. He glances in the mirror and ruffles his hair until it looks charmingly disheveled, then returns to the living room.

John looks him up and down, his tongue sneaking out to moisten his lips. He clears his throat, “After you.” John gestures to the door, holding it open for Sherlock.

Sherlock glances at John on his way out the door. New blue shirt, brings out his eyes, date jacket, trousers that cling in all the right places, date shoes. Is John taking him on a date? Is that the experiment?

The moment Sherlock’s oxfords hit the pavement, a cab pulls up. John follows him in, giving the driver a familiar address.

“We’re going to Angelo’s?”

“Yes, our table is waiting. I requested a candle.”

“A candle?”

“More romantic.”

“John Hamish Watson, is this a date?”

John clears his throat before looking Sherlock directly in the eyes. “Yes. I would like it to be. If that’s alright with you.”

Sherlock turns towards the window and smiles, then schools his face and turns back. “It’s worth a try, I think.”

“Good. That’s, um, yeah, good.” John takes his turn to smile at the window.

They enter the restaurant to find a beaming Angelo waiting for them. “Ah, such a handsome couple. Billy, bring them some bread. Would you like some wine? I have a lovely Barbera that you’ll adore. It has rich cherry notes and is very versatile.”

“Fruity and vers. Sounds perfect.” Sherlock replies.

John nearly snorts water out of his nose and looks up to see the impish expression on Sherlock’s face.

“What about you John?” Asks Sherlock as Angelo and the waiter take their leave. “Do you like your wine fruity and versatile?”

John pretends to consider this seriously before answering, “I like my wine bright and acerbic, bold and a tad muscular.”

“Mmm… I like mine full-bodied and earthy, but with a smooth finish. I like a wine that steps forward and dominates the palate.” Sherlock responds.

“See, I always assumed you’d like something more refined, subtle.”

“Alas, my palate isn’t refined enough to pick up on all the subtleties of a fine wine. I need something steadfast that will take control of my mouth and tell it what to taste.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“What?”

“We’re in a public place.”

“Yes, we’re in a restaurant talking about wine. Is that somehow inappropriate?”

“We’re not talking about wine. We’re talking about mouths and control…”

“Well that’s what started this, isn’t it John? The case with the riding crop. Where your mind went with that.”

“Yeah, my mind went somewhere with that, but this isn’t new, Sherlock, this has been brewing for a while, maybe from the beginning.”

“John, my mind went somewhere too, thinking about corporal punishment. And my body followed suit. So, from the beginning, huh?”

“You winked at me. When you left the lab, you winked.”

“And you asked if I was seeing anyone.”

“And you rejected me.”

“And you pretended that’s not what it was! And have been decrying it from the rooftops ever since!”

“Why did you reject me?” John sounds so honest and vulnerable that Sherlock has to respond in kind.

“I barely knew you. I was scared. I hadn’t attempted a relationship since my early twenties and never have while sober. I figured there would be time to figure it out, to approach it slowly. But, that was before you started trying to get a leg over half the female population of London. Why did you keep saying you aren’t gay?”

“I’m not gay, I’m bisexual…”

“Oh come on…”

“Let me finish! And I didn’t want people to think that’s the only reason you had me around, or the only reason I was hanging around. I didn’t want it diminished like that. As far as trying to bed the female population of London, I was in a dark place before I met you, Sherlock, and you brought me out of that. You helped me heal and find purpose and part of healing was reconnecting with my body. Oh, hell, Sherlock, being around you and all the excitement of cases had me randy as hell and, as I had been informed you weren’t an option, it had to go somewhere.”

“It had to go somewhere?”

“I mean the sexual energy! Not… you know…”

“Your penis?”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!”

No one in the restaurant had been paying attention to their wine talk, but a fair few were paying attention now.

John continues in a whisper. “No more talking about my penis in public. We’re going to have some lovely wine and a lovely dinner and then we can go home and talk about penises. Okay?”

Billy the waiter chooses that moment to bring the bread and wine. He pointedly does not look at John while he pours Sherlock a taste. Sherlock swirls it on his tongue and makes a pleased noise.

“Will this bottle be acceptable, sir?”

“Yes, just look at that deep blood red color.” Sherlock responds while looking at John’s flushed cheeks. “Leave the bottle, please.”

“Very well. Would you like to hear about our specials?”

“No thank you. I already know what I want.” Sherlock answers.

“Sir?” The waiter continues when Sherlock fails to add anything.

“John will order for me. That’s what I want.”

John points to a couple of items on the menu and Billy leaves them be. “What was that all about? Since when do I order for you?”

“The case, with the crop, the whip, the flogger. It got me thinking.”

“Yes?”

“It got me thinking about exchanges of power. Sexual exchanges of power.”

“Okay.”

“And the idea of giving up control to you is quite intriguing.”

“Oh. To be honest, I thought you’d want to be the bossy one, the way you were going at that pig.”

A woman at the next table gasps and stares. Sherlock turns around to address her. “Not a live pig.”

“Not making it better, love.” John grabs Sherlock’s hand to regain his attention.

John snorts and starts giggling. Sherlock follows suit. “I think we should add flogging pigs to the list of things not to talk about in public.”

“So, you’d rather be on the receiving end?”

“That’s how I’ve imagined it, but I’d be open to trying it anyway you’d like.”

“There’s a lot of things I’d like to try with you, Sherlock, but, for now, I think we should keep it simple. I’m still getting my mind around this really happening between us.”

“Okay, for now, try the wine.”

John takes a sip and considers the taste. “Hmm, you give it a little time to breathe and the flavor really opens up.”

“Do tell.”

“Still bold and acerbic, but I have a feeling that there are a lot of subtle notes that I haven’t even tasted yet.”

Sherlock takes another sip before responding. “There’s an unexpected sweetness to it, as well. Not cloying, but it’s there, underneath the surface. It’s the contradictions that make it so rich.”

“Yes, exactly. Thanks for coming out and having a drink with me, Sherlock.”

“My pleasure.”

Chapter Text

John climbs the stairs to the flat, tired from a full shift at the surgery. When he enters the flat, his view is obscured by stacks of boxes scattered around the living room.

“Sherlock?!”

“No need to shout, John, I’m right here.” Sherlock replies while popping up from behind a stack only a few feet away.

“Where did all these boxes come from?”

“My parents’ house. They’re building out the cellar so they can have a basement dance studio. They shipped everything of mine that they’ve been storing down there.”

“Where are we going to put it all?”

“Don’t worry, I doubt I’ll keep much of it. Most of it will end up in the bin or a charity shop. I just need to go through it and make sure I don’t get rid of anything important. I think my original birth certificate is in here somewhere…”

“Surely you’ll want to keep some of it? Childhood mementos?”

“I’ve lived without these things for years, John. I remember more than I want to from my formative years, I don’t need to keep the knick knacks.”

“Well, I don’t know much about your formative years. Can I help you go through it?”

“Why would you want to know? It’s not terribly interesting.”

“Because that’s what friends do. Share stories about themselves. Get to know each other’s pasts.”

“I don’t know much about your childhood either.”

John looks at him skeptically.

“Well, not much that I wasn’t able to deduce on my own.”

“So, we’ll both share. I’ll learn about your childhood and tell you about what was similar or different for me? Alright?”

“I suppose so, if that’s what friends do. Where should we start?”

“Mmm… first take out, then old memories. I’ll order us some Chinese, then let’s start with that trunk.” John gestures to a forest green and gold steamer trunk.

“I don’t think I’ve opened that since my last day at school.”

“It’ll be like a time capsule, then.”

After dim sum and la mian, they sit on either side of the trunk while Sherlock picks the lock. The key is hanging from a handle by a string, but Sherlock insists he needs the practice. There’s a slight click and then Sherlock opens it up.

“Not much to it. Uniforms, books, old essays… I should just bin the whole thing.”

“Not so fast.” John pulls out a monogrammed jacket, even slimmer than Sherlock’s current clothes. John didn’t know that was possible. Various other pieces of the public uniform follow.

“I don’t know what you expect to learn. My parents sent me to an elite institution with a bunch of privileged idiots. I suffered through it and never looked back.”

John continues to pull things out. Books, pens, pants, socks. “Oh, what do we have here?” John holds up a black leather jacket with a variety of patches and pins providing pops of color.

“I wore that when I went to an occasional concert or club.” Sherlock watches John rifle through the pockets. He comes up with a little baggy, cocaine gone yellow with age. John raises his eyebrows and Sherlock shrugs.

Next, John pulls out a pair of red tartan trousers with various rivets, rips, chains and zips. “Oh my god, you were a punk. You had a punk phase.”

“Yes, I had a bit of a punk phase. It was the early nineties, grunge, goth, punk, it all sort of bled together.” John began searching the trouser pockets. “John, wait…” But, it was too late. John pulled out an old crumpled pack of fags, a baggy with an ecstasy tablet inside, a tube of slick and a couple of rubbers out of the pockets.

“Oh.”

“This is awkward.”

“It’s fine, nothing awkward. You were a teenager, of course you’d, um…”

“Go to a rave prepared to have anal chemsex?”

“Um, yeah, not quite the wording I would have chosen.”

“It’s the truth. No need to sugar coat it.”

“Well, that answers some questions.”

“Which questions?”

“What exactly you meant when you said women weren’t really your area. And whether or not you’re, well, you know…”

“A virgin? Just because I was prepared doesn’t mean it necessarily happened.”

“Well, did it? Happen?”

“Yes, John, I did in fact have sex as a teenager. Some of it anal chemsex, some not.”

“Okay then.”

“Are you learning more about me? Getting what you wanted?” Sherlock says in an acerbic tone. To John he sounds defensive, vulnerable.

“Sherlock, yes, I am learning more about you and I’m not judging you, I promise. If you want to stop, that’s fine, though. I didn’t mean to push your boundaries.” John places a hand on Sherlock’s forearm, attempting to calm him. “You haven’t asked me anything, yet. Would that help it feel less one-sided?”

Sherlock looks down at John’s hand on his arm and feels a flush in his cheeks. He clears his throat. “What did you wear as a teenager? I can’t see you as a punk.”

“No, not a punk. Hold on. I’ll go grab a picture.”

When John comes back downstairs, he’s holding an old shoebox. He sits and fishes out a photo. “Here.” He hands it to Sherlock.

The photo shows a young, baby-faced John in high top trainers, acid wash jeans and… “Oh, John that jumper was horrific. The neon, the geometry, dear lord!”

John sits next to Sherlock so they can look at the picture together. “It was very stylish at the time.”

“John, there’s no way that abomination was ever in style.”

John points to the girl in the picture. The one with his hideous jumper-clad arm around her.“That’s Jenny. Jenny Shaw. She was my first girlfriend and my first time. I was sixteen.”

Sherlock turns around to dig into the bottom of his trunk. He comes up with a picture of him and another boy, both in school uniforms. He shows it to John. “That was Victor Trevor. He was my only friend and my first time. We were fifteen and I loved him and he may have loved me, but he threw me over pretty quickly when I didn’t meet his expectations.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“It was a long time ago, it doesn’t matter.”

“But he was your first love, that sort of thing sticks with you, it forms you.”

“What about you and Jenny?”

“Oh, she was a very nice girl, I liked her a lot, but I don’t think I was in love. She wasn’t that important to me in the scheme of things.”

“Who was your first love?”

“His name was Rob. It was my second year of uni and we played rugby together. We moved in together for third year, but kept separate rooms. Neither of us were out. It wore on us, or at least it wore on me, always hiding. We fought a lot, hurt each other a lot, but we always ended up back together. He didn’t want me to join the army and I gave him an ultimatum. Stop hiding, come out and I wouldn’t join the army.”

“And you joined the army.”

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry, John.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“John? Why do you always insist you’re not gay?”

“I’m not. I’m bisexual and I’ve mostly been with women. I decided that if I ever entered a relationship with a man again, though, I wouldn’t hide it, but that’s never happened.”

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For telling me.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you for telling me about Victor. It doesn’t sound like he deserved you.”

“It doesn’t sound like Rob deserved you.”

“No. He really didn’t.”

“You deserve someone who’s proud to be in a relationship with you.” Sherlock says softly.

“Thank you, Sherlock. You deserve someone who loves you for who you are.”

“You love me the way I am, don’t you?” Sherlock asks tentatively.

“A few less body parts in the crisper wouldn’t hurt, but, yeah, Sherlock, you are so extraordinary. Why would I ever want you to change? To be less you? This Victor must have been a real wanker.”

“Thank you, John. I’m proud to call you my friend. I’d be proud to call you more than that, if that were the case… Rob sounds like an idiotic coward.”

“Do you think you ever might want to call me more than a friend?”

“John, don’t say that.”

“Sorry, I just thought…”

“Don’t say that unless you really mean it. Because you are the most important person in the world to me and I would be devastated to not have you in my life. I’m fine if that’s only ever as a friend, so please do not jeopardize that on some whim.”

“It’s not a whim, Sherlock. I’m bloody well gone over you, but I didn’t think it was an option to be with Sherlock-married-to-his-work-Holmes. I didn’t even know if you were open to a romantic relationship with anyone.”

“I wasn’t. Not really. But that was before I found out you were, well, you. It was also before I knew you weren’t strictly straight. I thought I was pining over my straight best friend, what a cliche…”

“You’ve been pining?”

“Pining might be a bit dramatic…”

“I’ve been pining over my unavailable, gorgeous, genius flatmate.”

“Shall we stop pining, then?” Sherlock asks.

John leans in to kiss Sherlock. It’s warm and breathy and infused with emotion. He backs off enough to say, “Yes, let’s.” Before Sherlock recaptures him in a kiss.

Chapter Text

Ragged breathing, heart pounding, chest pressure, shaking, sweating, rocking… not again, not again, not again… I’m not there, I am safe, I’m not there, I am safe… it’s over, it’s over, it’s…

Think, use your mind, use your techniques… five things I can see… it’s dark, it’s dark, it’s dark… NO
I see the dim light of the street lamp through the curtains, I see, I see, I see the curtains, I see the chair, I see the wardrobe, I see, I see my hand, I can see my hand, right here, in front of my face, I’m here, here, not there, it’s over…

Four things I can touch. I feel, I can feel, I feel myself flexing my fingers, I feel my shirt, sticking to my skin, I feel, I feel the sheets on my legs, I feel, I touch, I can feel my head in my hands, I’m not bound, I can move, I am here, it’s over…

Three things I can hear. I hear, I hear, I hear a car going down the street, I hear the click of the radiator, I hear a creek on the stairs. He’s awake, he’s coming down. Did I scream? Did I cry out before I woke up? Did he hear me? I am here, I’m alive, he’s alive, he’s back, back in my life, back in the flat, I’m home, I’m not there, it’s over, I’m here, I’m safe…

Two things I can smell. I smell the flat, old mildew, dust, the laundry soap, my body, my sweat. I’m here, I’m home, it’s okay, he’s here, I’m safe…

One thing I can taste… the cigarette I snuck last night… I’m not supposed to… he hates it, but he’s so patient, so patient with me. I’m home, we’re home, it’s okay, I’m safe.

I’m safe. He’s safe. It’s all over. This is what I did it all for. He’s back in my life. What am I waiting for? I can’t lose him, it’s not safe, it’s not safe. My feelings aren’t safe. I can’t lose him, not again, never again, please, please, I just want to feel safe, I need to feel safe… ragged breathing, trembling, no… no, no, no

“Noooo!”

“Sherlock?” He’s coming in, it’s not safe, I’m not safe, I can’t, I can’t…

“Sherlock? It’s okay. You’re here, you’re safe, I’m here, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay. It’s alright. Can you look at me?”

Not safe, not safe, not safe…

“Sherlock, look at me.” He’s so close, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, too close… “Sherlock, I’m going to touch you, okay?” He’s taking my hands in his, he’s rubbing my hands with his thumbs, he’s trying to soothe me.

“Sherlock, can you look up? Can you look at me?” Not safe, not safe, feels safe, my feelings aren’t safe…

“Sherlock, I’m going to touch your face, okay?” He’s touching… he’s lifting my chin… look away, not safe, can’t, can’t, can’t, but I do.

“John.”

“There you are. It’s okay.” He’s rubbing my cheek, so close, this is so intimate, it feels safe, he feels safe. “I’ve been here, I know, I’ve got you.”

“John, I can’t breathe.”

“Yes you can. You are, you’re breathing right now. You’re home, you’re in bed, you’re safe. I’m here, it’ll be alright, Sherlock.”

I feel, I feel, I feel, I can feel, my heart. I can feel, I feel tears running down my cheeks. I’m crying and he’s holding my face and he’s not looking away and he’s speaking.

“…alright?”

“What?”

“I said, I’m going to hug you now, okay? Is that alright?”

“Please…” and I don’t know if I’m answering him or pleading for him to stop, but he takes it as an answer and he’s holding me in his arms. And it feels… I feel… I smell John and I feel safe, it feels safe, he feels safe, I’m safe and it’s over and I’m home. I’m finally home.

“John?” muffled into his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“I feel safe with you.”

“That’s good, I’m glad, you are safe with me.”

“For now.”

He pulls back a little. “What do you mean?”

“I’m safe with you now. But…”

“What?”

It’s okay, I see his eyes, I feel his arms, I hear his breath, I smell the scent of him… I want to taste, I want to know…

“What, Sherlock? You can say anything. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Even if?”

“Even if what?”

“This…” and I lean forward and I kiss him, I feel, I taste, I’m kissing him… and he’s kissing me. I hear a moan. Is it him?

He pulls back. “Sherlock, oh god, are you sure?”

“Please…” and it’s an answer and a plea for him to not stop and he hears me and he knows and he’s holding me, he’s got me, he’s kissing me.

He grounds me. I’m in my body, I feel my body, I feel his body…

And all I can hear is my heart pounding in my ears and our ragged breath.