fic; Sherlock/John; Chasing Butterflies
Title: Chasing Butterflies
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,138
Warnings: implied drug use, guns, kidnapping (but nothing explicit or dark)
Summary: Angry with himself and John, Sherlock left on a case. Alone. And things went badly wrong.
A/N: Thank you to my wonderful beta devikun. This fic was written for patster223 as a part of holmestice challenge.
(He felt the pulse against his fingertips. So strong, a constant thump, thump against his sensitive skin. He let go but the world continued to spin on its axis. And hands. Hands touched scars and the silk wrapped around the mattress. It was warm, then hot. And he fell, hands digging into the silk for support. Mouth shaped silent words that would never be spoken, not in the daylight. They didn’t belong. And he was numb when the warmth dissolved into a rhythmic pounding of the rain against the windowpane.)
Once there was time when the world kept spinning, when everything was a blur and the lightness in his limbs and their lack of coordination wasn’t a blessing but a curse. His mind flew free of its restrains, of the interruptions of everything else like a bird (weren’t they evil? Mocking human at every chance they got, so easy on the eyes but not even once could you get close to their secret), flying in the direction he anticipated.
There were times when he could tell hallucinations from the truth, but this truth (the soft sound of hushed footsteps on the carpet, the dipping of the sofa, and hands, those hands in his hair, and warmth. Why did it always disappear? Ah,) felt so fucking real, so close to what he denied (when you tell yourself that you don't deserve it for long enough, it becomes a truth in your mind) that when the world stopped spinning and the haze lifted from his mind, the first thing he did was to make sure he was alone.
He was. Not a sound, nothing.
He threw a glass against the closest wall. It was not supposed to be like this.
(Everything smelled of flowers. He brushed against their colourful heads, walking in one particular direction. His feet knew the way, the lush grass bending under his shoes. And there he was, in the middle of the field, alone, beautiful. He let himself breathe freely for the first time in a decade... But colours blurred. Everything went white like an empty canvas he had to fill. He hung his head. The rain didn’t stop, wherever it had come from.)
“You have to stop this, Sherlock,” Mycroft said in worried voice but Sherlock decided to ignore it with a huff of a breath and looked away. The sky was grey, depressing and so boring (When he will come home? He wanted to play the violin for John like that time, draw a smile from him).
Mycroft was saying something again. “You are wasting away. I’ll make you an appointment with a psychologist so you can work out what’s wrong with you.” It wasn’t a suggestion, an order more likely. He was sick of it. Sick and tired.
“No, stop the mothering and leave me alone.”
Mycroft stopped leaning against his umbrella and looked in his eyes with all the concern and anger of a brother.
“You’ll do as I say. Sherlock, I’m not kidding, what John thinks about-”
I fucked up again, that's what. “It’s none of your business. Leave me, I said!” Sherlock lost it this time and Mycroft had the decency to look taken aback. “Don’t interfere with my life, Mycroft. Ever again.”
Before leaving, Mycroft gave him one last look that said more than words and Sherlock knew he was worried (Was he a genius or not? But to know his brother he didn’t need any of that) but there was nothing his money could fix this time.
(The stairs were cold under his numb fingers. The clock ticked somewhere in the distance and he continued to sit and wait, wait. He twisted the fabric of his coat between his hands. They didn’t think they belonged on that material. He expected different hands on the coat, around him, searching, giving. A door slammed shut. He was met with tired blue eyes and they offered what he had always hoped for. And he bolted to his room and the white canvas filled the space. It felt like disappointment against his fingers.)
The scent of coffee filled Sherlock’s nostrils and invited him into the kitchen. John was making it, quietly humming to himself. He looked relaxed, but then his shoulders tensed as if sensing Sherlock’s presence. Sherlock didn’t let that minor detail discourage him. He walked straight up to John, draping one arm around his stomach and kissed the back of John’s neck (he wanted to linger, feel more of that skin but he knew-) and John almost noticeably shuddered.
“Do you want coffee too?”
“Yes, I would.”
John moved out of his hold, increasing the distance between them and Sherlock didn’t let disappointment rule him. He could shut such emotions out easily before but now…
John avoided eye contact. He had been doing that a lot lately and he possibly had a good reason. Sherlock wasn’t a boyfriend anyone would dream of having, though these days he had been thinking that possibly that label didn’t apply to them anymore. John was pulling away, after all. He knew the signs when he saw them.
“Here,” John said, handing him the cup and their fingers brushed. Sparks still flew, but John didn’t seem to care. “I’ll be in my room. If you need anything, just ask.”
“Wait!” Sherlock stopped him by grabbing his wrist. This wasn’t how he wanted to spend rest of his days. As much as he hated to do it, he had to ask, “What exactly is wrong?”
“What do you mean?” John’s face became weary. Sherlock hated that.
“You pull away; you barely look at me anymore.”
“You figure it out. You’re always so bloody smart. Why don’t do it yourself? I’m tired.” John forcefully pulled his hands out of his grip and went upstairs.
That evening Sherlock left on a new case. Alone.
(His heart beat wildly like it wanted to escape his chest. One step. Two steps… three- a gunshot)
Chained to a chair, blindfolded, Sherlock felt like an idiot. And somewhere in the distance Moriarty was laughing like a maniac. That lunatic might think that he had the great Sherlock Holmes in his hands (“quite willing, wasn’t he?” Moriarty had said) but he knew exactly where they were (East London, an abandoned building, third floor) and Mycroft will come to rescue him soon and John was safe.
He could bear to be a little uncomfortable. He decided to ask questions to pass the time. He needed answers and he knew that Moriarty would give them, either to humour him or to relish the fact that he had the power; Sherlock didn’t care much either way.
“Why am I here?” he asked in a loud and clear voice.
“Sherlock, you already know,” Moriarty answered cheerfully.
That bored lunatic.
Right, to burn out my heart. “I just wonder, how you plan to do it,” Sherlock mused out loud.
“We’ll have fun first… you and me. It will be marvellous.”
“Oh, I doubt it.”
“Don’t be so sceptical, Sherlock. You’re surrounded. It’s me and… you now.”
Moriarty was so close to him now, he felt his breath brush over his ear. He kept his face expression carefully blank, leaning slightly away from him.
Moriarty suddenly clapped his hands together. “Then, let’s start.”
Why was no-one coming to his rescue? Had he really-
-
Run, this may be the only chance you've got.
John ran like he had never run before in his life (not even from police or crazy murderers or in the army). That idiot thought that he could- and now he was kidnapped and alone and Mycroft was hesitant to interfere (now of all times). John didn’t want to waste any more time in his and Sherlock’s flat. Instead, he found the address written in Mycroft’s neat handwriting in his coat pocket. Without thinking more about the situation, John got his gun and went out in a cold, early morning.
It had been snowing the day before. Everything was covered in white and it was strangely beautiful, but John couldn’t appreciate the sight, though he loved snow.
He took a taxi as far as he dared to, and then ran the rest of the way.
His heart thumped in his chest, scared, because they had met Moriarty before (I’ll burn you… I’ll burn the heart out of you) and he knew what Moriarty was capable of, better yet Sherlock knew it too yet he went there alone (now I know your weakness, isn’t that beautiful?), and John hated that.
-
Sherlock didn’t even get a chance to finish his thought when the door burst open and Moriarty’s slightly surprised voice asked, “John Watson?”
Sherlock’s shoulders sagged, heart picking up speed and he started to twist against his restraints. Not John, not again. Fuck.
Suddenly, John’s level voice filled the room.
“Don’t dare to even move. I’ll kill you.” He had the gun. The probability filled Sherlock with relief but it wasn’t enough. Moriarty had his snipers lurking around, waiting. Besides, this blindfold was starting to get on Sherlock’s nerves. He wanted to see.
Sherlock listened instead. Slow, measured footsteps were approaching him. John. Suddenly the blindfold was lifted from his face and he looked straight in John’s blue eyes. He saw fear; he saw worry, and he couldn’t take it. Was this how guilt felt? Then he didn’t want to feel it ever again; it was weighting him down like an anchor.
“Such big words, John.” Moriarty was smiling. Fucking smiling.
“Shut up. You don’t have any say now.” John had the gun trained at Moriarty, hands not shaking one bit. His posture was rigid, one he had learned in the army, face set in a hard, cold expression. He looked menacing, someone to be afraid of.
Moriarty didn’t seem to care about any of it. “Dear John, I don’t think so.”
Sherlock saw tiny red dots (yes, in plural, precisely three) appear on various parts of John (heart, neck and stomach) and he wanted to jump up, stand in front of the foolish man. John didn’t know what he was doing (to Sherlock).
“I know what game you’re playing,” Sherlock spoke up, bravely gazing at Moriarty. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John turn his head and then widen his eyes. Ah, he had the snipers pointing at him as well, then.
“Tut, tut, Sherlock, I hadn’t even explained the rules to you yet.”
“It’s not necessary,” Sherlock dismissed Moriarty with an arrogant wave of his head.
It angered Moriarty just as Sherlock had expected. Moriarty’s eyes narrowed and his voice had a dangerous edge to it when he finally spoke.
“Okay…” Moriarty stepped closer to the door (how had he gotten so close already, that sneaky bastard), one hand settling on it as he added, “Say goodbye.”
When the meaning registered in his mind, Sherlock had a brief flare of panic that seized his heart, squeezing till he thought he’d never get air into his lungs and his mind went, John, John-
A shotgun rang in the room, echoing around the naked walls, and Sherlock’s eyes widened.
No!
But it wasn’t John who went down. Nobody did, in fact. The door was closed, Moriarty was gone and no red dots decorated John’s body. Sherlock exhaled loudly in relief, his lips stretching into a smile. Mycroft.
John dropped to his knees behind the chair Sherlock sat in. The gun clattered on the ground and slid away from them. With barely controlled hand movements (to don’t let them shake) John undid the ropes. Somewhere in the distance they could hear police sirens and someone yelling. As soon Sherlock’s numb arms were freed, he flexed them and jumped to his feet, turning to John.
“What were you doing, fool? Do you ever think for a moment? I didn’t need your bloody help,” Sherlock shouted.
John snorted. “Of course you didn’t need it. That’s why you were chained to the chair in the first place.”
“It was all part of a plan.” Sherlock gestured with his right hand as if say oh please but it came out kind of jerky and his hand was shaking (he hadn’t realized). He hid it in his pocket, willing the shake to stop. It was ridiculous since he had endured things more than this, more than- it was all because of John.
“Plan, my arse. Sherlock, just admit that you had no plan and if I or Lestrade hadn’t came you’d most probably be bleeding to death by now.”
“Lestrade can’t put two and two together so fast, let’s face it, so it was all up to Mycroft, wasn’t it?” He left you a clue, that bastard, didn’t he?
“What the bloody difference does it make?” John looked Sherlock straight in the eyes. The anger was building in John to match Sherlock’s own fear.
“None. As I said, you were a fool to come here.”
“You left me behind,” John accused.
Sherlock shrugged. Play it cool. “You didn’t want to speak to me.”
“I wanted you to-”
“I know. But I had a case.”
“Of course, married to the work.” There was no humour behind the muttered words.
“When has that bothered you?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“And when has the fact that I didn’t want to speak to you bothered you?” John asked right back, not loosing his cool, hands in fists by his side.
“Don’t answer my questions with more questions.”
“Why not?”
“It’s annoying.”
John’s mouth promptly shut without uttering a sound. Sherlock knew that John wanted to say something. It was as obvious as the fact that he had to get away, had to be as far from John as humanly possible right now before he did something that he’d regret.
He turned on his heels without a word and headed for the door. It was so close, so-
“I just wanted to help you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock spun around.
“You could’ve been shot, you idiot! What then?” Tell the truth, tell him- “I wouldn’t- couldn’t cope with that.” Smooth. Even the voice in his head was sarcastic now.
Sherlock felt uncomfortable and exposed. It wasn’t what he wanted to say at first, yet his heart calmed in his chest. Silence fell upon them (John was watching him, of course) and he refrained from biting his lower lip in worry. There was nothing to worry about, nothing left to say. If he’d just-
“You care,” John stated and that simple statement, the wonder hidden behind the words, made Sherlock, yell out,
“I’m bloody in love with you. Of course I care! Don’t be daft.”
He had insulted John more than once during his yelling, mixed a confession in between it all (wait! What? Oh God), yet John was smiling at him like Christmas came early.
The realization dawned on his face, clear and bright, when John walked forwards, stopping right in front of him, and leaned closer, whispering against his lips, “Took you long enough to admit that.”
“You didn’t-amph.”
It seemed like the dam had broken. John yielded to his lips from the moment they touched and Sherlock knew what they had been missing. The feeling of security, the knowledge and freedom to do what they pleased, without worrying if it wasn’t too much too soon- John moaned into the kiss and Sherlock brought one hand to his hair.
Suddenly, Lestrade rushed into the room, took one look at them intertwined, muttered, startled, “Uh, um, I’ll just-” and ran back out just as quickly.
(Whiteness changed into a bloom of colour, so bright. He had to shield his eyes with his arms. He didn’t know this place, these colourful walls or ceiling or the long curtain, half-caught in the open window. But he wasn’t alone, anymore.)
Things weren’t prefect. They never were because it was life; it threw lemons at you and gifted with things you never hoped (dared) to have, but it gave as much as it took. And Sherlock was secretly glad that they'd had that row in that abandoned building.
And John still made tea for them both (Sherlock had better things to do, like observe John, run his eyes over that body he had just the night before- and of course, John would turn and smile knowingly) and they couldn’t agree on many things but (including whispered I want you against heated skin) there were so much more between them now when everything was out in open and-
Christmas was a quiet affair. Of course, as quiet and normal as it could get with Sherlock for a boyfriend (John, no Christmas tree, you know what I’ll do with it eventually), Harry for a sister (she had sent him The Idiot’s Guide to Successful Relationships and he had texted back - the skull is on its way, be prepared for Sherlock’s anger. John), Mycroft for Sherlock’s brother (he even followed them in his black car on Christmas Eve for Christ’s sake) and Mrs. Hudson-
Mrs. Hudson had taken one look at their hands, clasped together (John had blushed, tried to hide them behind his back but Sherlock would have none of it) and said, grinning from ear to ear, “Oh boys, have fun!”
“That’s exactly what we intend to do,” Sherlock had answered without missing a beat and they had left. The night (it had been snowing ever so slightly and their clothes, hair and face were covered in snowflakes- white and melting) had been wonderful (Sherlock hadn’t mentioned anything about a surprise, or a gift, or anything besides a dinner on Christmas and oh my God) and they had kissed on the street on their way back when it had started to snow for real.
The next morning Mrs. Hudson had come in with bright eyes and a smile and Sherlock had whispered in John’s ear, tickling the sensitive skin, “She’s still slightly drunk. She's been celebrating.”
John almost invisibly shivered, watching her go to the kitchen (didn’t she say something about tea?) and asked, “Celebrating what?”
“Us.” Sherlock looked in John’s eyes and smiled. They were so close.
(They will continue one step at a time. Sherlock knew it as much as he felt John smile against his exposed skin).
(He felt the pulse against his fingertips. So strong, a constant thump, thump against his sensitive skin. He let go but the world continued to spin on its axis. And hands. Hands touched scars, touched the silk wrapped around the mattress. It was warm, then hot. And he fell, hands digging into the silk for support. Mouth shaped words that were meant to be spoken, even in the daylight. They belonged and they fit together so well. The warmth stayed with him for the rest of the night. His lips shaped themselves into a smile.)
The end
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,138
Warnings: implied drug use, guns, kidnapping (but nothing explicit or dark)
Summary: Angry with himself and John, Sherlock left on a case. Alone. And things went badly wrong.
A/N: Thank you to my wonderful beta devikun. This fic was written for patster223 as a part of holmestice challenge.
(He felt the pulse against his fingertips. So strong, a constant thump, thump against his sensitive skin. He let go but the world continued to spin on its axis. And hands. Hands touched scars and the silk wrapped around the mattress. It was warm, then hot. And he fell, hands digging into the silk for support. Mouth shaped silent words that would never be spoken, not in the daylight. They didn’t belong. And he was numb when the warmth dissolved into a rhythmic pounding of the rain against the windowpane.)
Once there was time when the world kept spinning, when everything was a blur and the lightness in his limbs and their lack of coordination wasn’t a blessing but a curse. His mind flew free of its restrains, of the interruptions of everything else like a bird (weren’t they evil? Mocking human at every chance they got, so easy on the eyes but not even once could you get close to their secret), flying in the direction he anticipated.
There were times when he could tell hallucinations from the truth, but this truth (the soft sound of hushed footsteps on the carpet, the dipping of the sofa, and hands, those hands in his hair, and warmth. Why did it always disappear? Ah,) felt so fucking real, so close to what he denied (when you tell yourself that you don't deserve it for long enough, it becomes a truth in your mind) that when the world stopped spinning and the haze lifted from his mind, the first thing he did was to make sure he was alone.
He was. Not a sound, nothing.
He threw a glass against the closest wall. It was not supposed to be like this.
(Everything smelled of flowers. He brushed against their colourful heads, walking in one particular direction. His feet knew the way, the lush grass bending under his shoes. And there he was, in the middle of the field, alone, beautiful. He let himself breathe freely for the first time in a decade... But colours blurred. Everything went white like an empty canvas he had to fill. He hung his head. The rain didn’t stop, wherever it had come from.)
“You have to stop this, Sherlock,” Mycroft said in worried voice but Sherlock decided to ignore it with a huff of a breath and looked away. The sky was grey, depressing and so boring (When he will come home? He wanted to play the violin for John like that time, draw a smile from him).
Mycroft was saying something again. “You are wasting away. I’ll make you an appointment with a psychologist so you can work out what’s wrong with you.” It wasn’t a suggestion, an order more likely. He was sick of it. Sick and tired.
“No, stop the mothering and leave me alone.”
Mycroft stopped leaning against his umbrella and looked in his eyes with all the concern and anger of a brother.
“You’ll do as I say. Sherlock, I’m not kidding, what John thinks about-”
I fucked up again, that's what. “It’s none of your business. Leave me, I said!” Sherlock lost it this time and Mycroft had the decency to look taken aback. “Don’t interfere with my life, Mycroft. Ever again.”
Before leaving, Mycroft gave him one last look that said more than words and Sherlock knew he was worried (Was he a genius or not? But to know his brother he didn’t need any of that) but there was nothing his money could fix this time.
(The stairs were cold under his numb fingers. The clock ticked somewhere in the distance and he continued to sit and wait, wait. He twisted the fabric of his coat between his hands. They didn’t think they belonged on that material. He expected different hands on the coat, around him, searching, giving. A door slammed shut. He was met with tired blue eyes and they offered what he had always hoped for. And he bolted to his room and the white canvas filled the space. It felt like disappointment against his fingers.)
The scent of coffee filled Sherlock’s nostrils and invited him into the kitchen. John was making it, quietly humming to himself. He looked relaxed, but then his shoulders tensed as if sensing Sherlock’s presence. Sherlock didn’t let that minor detail discourage him. He walked straight up to John, draping one arm around his stomach and kissed the back of John’s neck (he wanted to linger, feel more of that skin but he knew-) and John almost noticeably shuddered.
“Do you want coffee too?”
“Yes, I would.”
John moved out of his hold, increasing the distance between them and Sherlock didn’t let disappointment rule him. He could shut such emotions out easily before but now…
John avoided eye contact. He had been doing that a lot lately and he possibly had a good reason. Sherlock wasn’t a boyfriend anyone would dream of having, though these days he had been thinking that possibly that label didn’t apply to them anymore. John was pulling away, after all. He knew the signs when he saw them.
“Here,” John said, handing him the cup and their fingers brushed. Sparks still flew, but John didn’t seem to care. “I’ll be in my room. If you need anything, just ask.”
“Wait!” Sherlock stopped him by grabbing his wrist. This wasn’t how he wanted to spend rest of his days. As much as he hated to do it, he had to ask, “What exactly is wrong?”
“What do you mean?” John’s face became weary. Sherlock hated that.
“You pull away; you barely look at me anymore.”
“You figure it out. You’re always so bloody smart. Why don’t do it yourself? I’m tired.” John forcefully pulled his hands out of his grip and went upstairs.
That evening Sherlock left on a new case. Alone.
(His heart beat wildly like it wanted to escape his chest. One step. Two steps… three- a gunshot)
Chained to a chair, blindfolded, Sherlock felt like an idiot. And somewhere in the distance Moriarty was laughing like a maniac. That lunatic might think that he had the great Sherlock Holmes in his hands (“quite willing, wasn’t he?” Moriarty had said) but he knew exactly where they were (East London, an abandoned building, third floor) and Mycroft will come to rescue him soon and John was safe.
He could bear to be a little uncomfortable. He decided to ask questions to pass the time. He needed answers and he knew that Moriarty would give them, either to humour him or to relish the fact that he had the power; Sherlock didn’t care much either way.
“Why am I here?” he asked in a loud and clear voice.
“Sherlock, you already know,” Moriarty answered cheerfully.
That bored lunatic.
Right, to burn out my heart. “I just wonder, how you plan to do it,” Sherlock mused out loud.
“We’ll have fun first… you and me. It will be marvellous.”
“Oh, I doubt it.”
“Don’t be so sceptical, Sherlock. You’re surrounded. It’s me and… you now.”
Moriarty was so close to him now, he felt his breath brush over his ear. He kept his face expression carefully blank, leaning slightly away from him.
Moriarty suddenly clapped his hands together. “Then, let’s start.”
Why was no-one coming to his rescue? Had he really-
-
Run, this may be the only chance you've got.
John ran like he had never run before in his life (not even from police or crazy murderers or in the army). That idiot thought that he could- and now he was kidnapped and alone and Mycroft was hesitant to interfere (now of all times). John didn’t want to waste any more time in his and Sherlock’s flat. Instead, he found the address written in Mycroft’s neat handwriting in his coat pocket. Without thinking more about the situation, John got his gun and went out in a cold, early morning.
It had been snowing the day before. Everything was covered in white and it was strangely beautiful, but John couldn’t appreciate the sight, though he loved snow.
He took a taxi as far as he dared to, and then ran the rest of the way.
His heart thumped in his chest, scared, because they had met Moriarty before (I’ll burn you… I’ll burn the heart out of you) and he knew what Moriarty was capable of, better yet Sherlock knew it too yet he went there alone (now I know your weakness, isn’t that beautiful?), and John hated that.
-
Sherlock didn’t even get a chance to finish his thought when the door burst open and Moriarty’s slightly surprised voice asked, “John Watson?”
Sherlock’s shoulders sagged, heart picking up speed and he started to twist against his restraints. Not John, not again. Fuck.
Suddenly, John’s level voice filled the room.
“Don’t dare to even move. I’ll kill you.” He had the gun. The probability filled Sherlock with relief but it wasn’t enough. Moriarty had his snipers lurking around, waiting. Besides, this blindfold was starting to get on Sherlock’s nerves. He wanted to see.
Sherlock listened instead. Slow, measured footsteps were approaching him. John. Suddenly the blindfold was lifted from his face and he looked straight in John’s blue eyes. He saw fear; he saw worry, and he couldn’t take it. Was this how guilt felt? Then he didn’t want to feel it ever again; it was weighting him down like an anchor.
“Such big words, John.” Moriarty was smiling. Fucking smiling.
“Shut up. You don’t have any say now.” John had the gun trained at Moriarty, hands not shaking one bit. His posture was rigid, one he had learned in the army, face set in a hard, cold expression. He looked menacing, someone to be afraid of.
Moriarty didn’t seem to care about any of it. “Dear John, I don’t think so.”
Sherlock saw tiny red dots (yes, in plural, precisely three) appear on various parts of John (heart, neck and stomach) and he wanted to jump up, stand in front of the foolish man. John didn’t know what he was doing (to Sherlock).
“I know what game you’re playing,” Sherlock spoke up, bravely gazing at Moriarty. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John turn his head and then widen his eyes. Ah, he had the snipers pointing at him as well, then.
“Tut, tut, Sherlock, I hadn’t even explained the rules to you yet.”
“It’s not necessary,” Sherlock dismissed Moriarty with an arrogant wave of his head.
It angered Moriarty just as Sherlock had expected. Moriarty’s eyes narrowed and his voice had a dangerous edge to it when he finally spoke.
“Okay…” Moriarty stepped closer to the door (how had he gotten so close already, that sneaky bastard), one hand settling on it as he added, “Say goodbye.”
When the meaning registered in his mind, Sherlock had a brief flare of panic that seized his heart, squeezing till he thought he’d never get air into his lungs and his mind went, John, John-
A shotgun rang in the room, echoing around the naked walls, and Sherlock’s eyes widened.
No!
But it wasn’t John who went down. Nobody did, in fact. The door was closed, Moriarty was gone and no red dots decorated John’s body. Sherlock exhaled loudly in relief, his lips stretching into a smile. Mycroft.
John dropped to his knees behind the chair Sherlock sat in. The gun clattered on the ground and slid away from them. With barely controlled hand movements (to don’t let them shake) John undid the ropes. Somewhere in the distance they could hear police sirens and someone yelling. As soon Sherlock’s numb arms were freed, he flexed them and jumped to his feet, turning to John.
“What were you doing, fool? Do you ever think for a moment? I didn’t need your bloody help,” Sherlock shouted.
John snorted. “Of course you didn’t need it. That’s why you were chained to the chair in the first place.”
“It was all part of a plan.” Sherlock gestured with his right hand as if say oh please but it came out kind of jerky and his hand was shaking (he hadn’t realized). He hid it in his pocket, willing the shake to stop. It was ridiculous since he had endured things more than this, more than- it was all because of John.
“Plan, my arse. Sherlock, just admit that you had no plan and if I or Lestrade hadn’t came you’d most probably be bleeding to death by now.”
“Lestrade can’t put two and two together so fast, let’s face it, so it was all up to Mycroft, wasn’t it?” He left you a clue, that bastard, didn’t he?
“What the bloody difference does it make?” John looked Sherlock straight in the eyes. The anger was building in John to match Sherlock’s own fear.
“None. As I said, you were a fool to come here.”
“You left me behind,” John accused.
Sherlock shrugged. Play it cool. “You didn’t want to speak to me.”
“I wanted you to-”
“I know. But I had a case.”
“Of course, married to the work.” There was no humour behind the muttered words.
“When has that bothered you?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“And when has the fact that I didn’t want to speak to you bothered you?” John asked right back, not loosing his cool, hands in fists by his side.
“Don’t answer my questions with more questions.”
“Why not?”
“It’s annoying.”
John’s mouth promptly shut without uttering a sound. Sherlock knew that John wanted to say something. It was as obvious as the fact that he had to get away, had to be as far from John as humanly possible right now before he did something that he’d regret.
He turned on his heels without a word and headed for the door. It was so close, so-
“I just wanted to help you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock spun around.
“You could’ve been shot, you idiot! What then?” Tell the truth, tell him- “I wouldn’t- couldn’t cope with that.” Smooth. Even the voice in his head was sarcastic now.
Sherlock felt uncomfortable and exposed. It wasn’t what he wanted to say at first, yet his heart calmed in his chest. Silence fell upon them (John was watching him, of course) and he refrained from biting his lower lip in worry. There was nothing to worry about, nothing left to say. If he’d just-
“You care,” John stated and that simple statement, the wonder hidden behind the words, made Sherlock, yell out,
“I’m bloody in love with you. Of course I care! Don’t be daft.”
He had insulted John more than once during his yelling, mixed a confession in between it all (wait! What? Oh God), yet John was smiling at him like Christmas came early.
The realization dawned on his face, clear and bright, when John walked forwards, stopping right in front of him, and leaned closer, whispering against his lips, “Took you long enough to admit that.”
“You didn’t-amph.”
It seemed like the dam had broken. John yielded to his lips from the moment they touched and Sherlock knew what they had been missing. The feeling of security, the knowledge and freedom to do what they pleased, without worrying if it wasn’t too much too soon- John moaned into the kiss and Sherlock brought one hand to his hair.
Suddenly, Lestrade rushed into the room, took one look at them intertwined, muttered, startled, “Uh, um, I’ll just-” and ran back out just as quickly.
(Whiteness changed into a bloom of colour, so bright. He had to shield his eyes with his arms. He didn’t know this place, these colourful walls or ceiling or the long curtain, half-caught in the open window. But he wasn’t alone, anymore.)
Things weren’t prefect. They never were because it was life; it threw lemons at you and gifted with things you never hoped (dared) to have, but it gave as much as it took. And Sherlock was secretly glad that they'd had that row in that abandoned building.
And John still made tea for them both (Sherlock had better things to do, like observe John, run his eyes over that body he had just the night before- and of course, John would turn and smile knowingly) and they couldn’t agree on many things but (including whispered I want you against heated skin) there were so much more between them now when everything was out in open and-
Christmas was a quiet affair. Of course, as quiet and normal as it could get with Sherlock for a boyfriend (John, no Christmas tree, you know what I’ll do with it eventually), Harry for a sister (she had sent him The Idiot’s Guide to Successful Relationships and he had texted back - the skull is on its way, be prepared for Sherlock’s anger. John), Mycroft for Sherlock’s brother (he even followed them in his black car on Christmas Eve for Christ’s sake) and Mrs. Hudson-
Mrs. Hudson had taken one look at their hands, clasped together (John had blushed, tried to hide them behind his back but Sherlock would have none of it) and said, grinning from ear to ear, “Oh boys, have fun!”
“That’s exactly what we intend to do,” Sherlock had answered without missing a beat and they had left. The night (it had been snowing ever so slightly and their clothes, hair and face were covered in snowflakes- white and melting) had been wonderful (Sherlock hadn’t mentioned anything about a surprise, or a gift, or anything besides a dinner on Christmas and oh my God) and they had kissed on the street on their way back when it had started to snow for real.
The next morning Mrs. Hudson had come in with bright eyes and a smile and Sherlock had whispered in John’s ear, tickling the sensitive skin, “She’s still slightly drunk. She's been celebrating.”
John almost invisibly shivered, watching her go to the kitchen (didn’t she say something about tea?) and asked, “Celebrating what?”
“Us.” Sherlock looked in John’s eyes and smiled. They were so close.
(They will continue one step at a time. Sherlock knew it as much as he felt John smile against his exposed skin).
(He felt the pulse against his fingertips. So strong, a constant thump, thump against his sensitive skin. He let go but the world continued to spin on its axis. And hands. Hands touched scars, touched the silk wrapped around the mattress. It was warm, then hot. And he fell, hands digging into the silk for support. Mouth shaped words that were meant to be spoken, even in the daylight. They belonged and they fit together so well. The warmth stayed with him for the rest of the night. His lips shaped themselves into a smile.)
The end