Wounded With His Wounded Heart, Ch. 4
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended.
Wounded With His Wounded Heart - Chapter FourJohn really needed very little at the bedsit. Leaving Sherlock and Anthea in the car, he swiftly packed several changes of clothing into a duffle bag, placed several smaller items, his Browning, and his toiletries on top, grabbed his laptop bag, and finally picked up a double-locked Pelican case that had also been securely fastened to his bedframe.
He made sure to lock his room as he left, and when he emerged back on the street, Sherlock got out of the car to help him put the bags in the trunk, giving John a curious look as he saw the locked case.
“You’ll see,” John said with a laugh. “I’ll show you when we get to Mycroft’s, I promise.”
The second leg of their journey was, thankfully, considerably shorter than the first, and John had to keep his jaw from dropping as they pulled up to an imposing building in Knightsbridge, one of London’s most expensive neighborhoods.
Anthea led the way this time, punching in a long code at the door and nodding to the guards in the foyer before leading them into the main part of the house. Unlike before, in the car, John wasn’t able to keep himself from gaping. The house was beautiful. Anthea was moving swiftly, and so he only had a blurred impression of high ceilings, beautiful archways, marble, flowers, and glass, but everything simply breathed taste and expense. They went up a large staircase in the center hall, and turned to the right at the top, going down the hallway until they were confronted with another set of double doors.
“This is one of the guest suites, and will be yours while you’re here,” Anthea said with a small smile. “Mr. Holmes, I’m sure you remember the layout of the house, so I’ll leave it to you to show Dr. Watson around.”
Sherlock looked startled to realize that Anthea was addressing him, but he nodded, and John reflected that his reaction was understandable; coming from Anthea, “Mr. Holmes” was always Mycroft. Anthea nodded back in acknowledgement, then turned the door handles and preceded them into the room.
The suite was, like everything else about Mycroft, immaculate, expensive, and tasteful, though John wasn’t expecting the warmth of the place. The dark wood and rich russet upholstery made everything feel cozy. Books lined the built-in shelves; there was a large sofa and two comfortable-looking reading chairs, and a wide coffee table that was clearly meant to hold books and files. There was a large fireplace with an ornately carved wooden mantle taking up most of one wall, with a beautiful flatscreen television anchored above it, and Anthea efficiently lit the fire that was already laid in the grate.
Off the living area there was a fairly large kitchen, and that space was more modern, with dark quartz countertops and stainless steel appliances, but the same warm finish throughout. Opposite the kitchen was an office, full of filing cabinets, more books, and a desk that John thought was suited to a high-end government official - huge, heavy, and capacious. It was clear, though, so presumably it was meant for the use of guests. A small hallway in the back led, he assumed, to the bedrooms and bathroom, and altogether John thought it would be a lovely, luxurious place to spend a few days.
Sherlock unceremoniously dropped John’s duffel and laptop inside the doorway and took off his coat, draping it carelessly over a chair. He then lowered himself gingerly to the sofa and resumed his thinking pose that had been interrupted in Mycroft’s office - something else that made John smile. He saw Anthea press her lips together at the strewn belongings; clearly she was used to Mycroft’s fastidiousness about his personal space. Sherlock doubtless knew that it would upset his brother to leave things lying about, even in guest rooms that had been assigned as theirs, and John gave a slight shake of his head at Sherlock and gave Anthea what he hoped was an apologetic smile.
“Thank you so much,” he said. “We really appreciate it.”
“It’s no problem at all, Dr. Watson,” Anthea said, giving him a glance that let him know she trusted him to keep Sherlock at least somewhat in line during their stay. “A courier should be here in an hour or two with some of Sherlock’s things. They’ll ring the bell.”
“Oh,” she added, “I should give you the code for the front door, in case you need it.” She took out her Blackberry and typed a quick text, and John heard the ping of his own phone as it was received. “Memorize it and delete that, if you can,” she said to John, and John nodded in understanding; the security key for Mycroft’s home was not something that should be readily available from someone’s phone. It didn’t surprise him at all that Anthea had his mobile number; that was easily within Mycroft’s reach.
“Right then, I’ll be off,” Anthea said, moving briskly toward the door. “I’ll pick up a few of Mr. Holmes’s things before I go and take them back to the Diogenes. There should be plenty of food and drinks up here, but if there’s anything you need, just ring for Willoughby. I’m sure Sherlock remembers.”
Sherlock cracked an eye open at the mention of his name, and John mouthed “Willoughby?” at him as the door clicked shut after Anthea, which produced a smile from Sherlock.
“The butler; he’s been with us since Mycroft was in his teens and I was just a boy,” Sherlock explained.
John shook his head. Sometimes there really were no words for how stark the differences were between the British classes.
Belatedly, he realized that he was still holding the Pelican case; he’d been so busy looking around and then listening to Anthea that he hadn’t bothered to set it down. He did so now, putting it on the table next to Sherlock and shedding his coat, hanging it on the coat rack by the door, before claiming the armchair next to Sherlock’s head for his own.
Sherlock had sat up and was studying the case, looking so confused by it that John grinned.
“You aren’t in the army anymore; you keep your Browning on you as much as possible, and if it’s not on your person it’s in the bedside drawer; the case is too big for a small firearm anyway; why would you still have a Pelican case?” Sherlock murmured.
“Well, properly speaking, I didn’t. You know that; you would have seen it if I had it before. I just knew where to get one when I needed it,” John smiled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key for the padlocks, handing it to Sherlock. The detective unlocked them deftly, and then John reached over and spun the combination lock, though he knew Sherlock’s eyes would follow the numbers. He sat back once he pulled the lock off, waiting, but Sherlock still appeared to hesitate.
“Well, go on then,” John urged him, and Sherlock blinked, clearly taking himself out of his mental deduction space, before reaching out and lifting the lid.
His cherished Stradivarius lay nestled in the foam, looking for all the world as if he had set it down in Baker Street hours ago, rather than over a year ago. It was immaculate; not a bit of dust dulled the smooth wood of the instrument or the bow, and John had asked the manufacturers to include slots for the rosin and tuning fork as well.
“John,” the detective breathed, reaching out slowly to run his fingers over the instrument. He raised his eyes to the army doctor, shock and adoration mixing in his face, and John felt his heart jump at the look. “You kept it. You had it, all this time. Why?” the detective asked, and John’s face twisted into a confused frown at the honest curiosity in Sherlock’s voice.
“You didn’t know I had it? I thought surely Mycroft would have told you. He never said anything to me, but I figured he must have known, even though he never asked me about it.”
“Perhaps he did know,” Sherlock said slowly. “I never asked for it or inquired where it was. I was never anywhere that would have allowed me to play, never anywhere long enough, and in any case I would not have wanted to carry it about and risk damaging it. The only time I played while I was gone was in a gypsy camp - I’ll get to that,” Sherlock preempted him, as John opened his mouth to ask. “But I didn’t - I never thought that you would have it. I thought Mycroft must have kept it; it is a valuable piece, aside from being mine. You hated being woken up by my playing, John; why would you keep a reminder of something that was so clearly obnoxious to you?”
John shook his head in disagreement, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I didn’t hate being woken up by your playing, Sherlock - the only time that was true was when you were frustrated and made your violin imitate something like a dying cat,” he said with a small chuckle. “I did not appreciate that at 3 am. But I loved hearing you play, and it never mattered when. I thought - I often thought that it helped keep the nightmares away, actually,” John admitted, his cheeks going faintly pink. “When - when you would play before I was asleep, I slept better - and if I had a nightmare but then you started playing after I woke up, it was easier to sleep again.”
Sherlock simply stared at him. “You never said anything.”
John rubbed the back of his neck, his nerves suddenly getting the better of him. “Yes, well, it hardly seemed like something I could mention at the time. I was sure you must have noticed at some point - you notice everything - but you never said anything, and so I didn’t either. And you played often enough while we were awake, and that was -” John stopped, at a loss for words, and his mouth went dry as Sherlock reached out and took his hand again, stroking one thumb over his knuckles.
“It was what?” Sherlock prompted, and John looked up at him. There was still only inquisitiveness there; Sherlock wanted to know, and he wanted John to be comfortable telling him. There was no coyness, no previously deduced knowledge of what John would say, and John abruptly realized that Sherlock was utterly unaware of the picture he presented when he was entirely focused on creating music.
“Sherlock, do you honestly not know how gorgeous you are when you play?” John asked frankly, and Sherlock’s cheeks went as pink as John’s had been a minute before, but he deflected it with his usual sarcasm, though it was much warmer in tone than it was with anyone else.
“Really, John, how much of a narcissist do you think I am?” he quipped, and John raised his brows.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” he returned dryly, and then they were both grinning, the tension broken and the ease returning.
Still smiling, John studied their hands as he resumed speaking, glancing up at Sherlock every now and then, somehow enjoying the contrast between the detective’s long, slender musician’s hands and his own slightly broader tan ones. “Sherlock, watching you play - for me, anyway, it’s like seeing the things you hide from everyone else, like you’re channeling all of your emotions into the music instead of showing them to the people around you. It’s - breathtaking. It took me ages to even realize why, why I couldn’t tear my eyes away from you when you had that violin in your hands - but once I understood it, I couldn’t see anything else.”
“And that,” he added quietly, “is why I took your violin with me, when I left Baker Street. Because I saw your heart most often when you played, and it was beautiful.”
Sherlock was silent for a long time, and John’s stomach began to turn with uneasiness. He looked up at his best friend again, searching.
“Too much?” he questioned carefully. Sherlock hadn’t let go of his hand, and John resisted the urge to tighten his grip; he didn’t want to give Sherlock any reason to pull away.
Sherlock still looked dazed, but he shook his head decisively in the negative. “No. No, John, I am just - surprised. You continually manage to confound my expectations. Even though I think I know you better than anyone, I am unable to always predict how you will react to something or what you will choose to observe. I suppose that is why you are a source of endless fascination,” he admitted with a smile. “I never thought you would see so much in something I do all the time, particularly because you seemed to find it an annoyance. I’m really almost upset that I failed to observe you, when you were observing me so intently,” he finished, sounding vexed, and John laughed.
“I’ll take it as a compliment that I manage to get anything past you at all,” he answered. “Even genius consulting detectives are not omniscient, and I’m thankful for it.”
“I also never realized I was quite so . . . unguarded when I played,” Sherlock said after a pause, and John could hear the discomfort, the vulnerability in the statement, and it made him flinch internally. “I have always used music to . . . feel my way through a case, let my mind work in the background while I focused on playing. Music has always let me release my emotions, let me refocus my thoughts on the logical progression of events, and so I never censored myself . . . but I suppose I had gotten used to playing without an audience. I never really played for you, did I?” he wondered rhetorically.
John didn’t feel that needed a response, and Sherlock removed the violin from its case tentatively, stroking it with his long fingers as though he didn’t quite remember the feel of it -and he probably didn’t, John thought; it had certainly been long enough.
Sherlock looked over at him, his eyes warm and bright. “I’ll play for you. I’ll have to practice a bit,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling up, “but I’ll play for you when we’re back at the flat.”
John swallowed the lump in his throat. “That would be wonderful.”
Just then, there was a knock at the door, and Sherlock turned his head, cutting off any attempt John would have made to continue speaking. John stood, with a small sigh, and went to answer it, knowing that Sherlock probably didn’t want to move if he was comfortable.
When John opened the door, he was confronted with a man who was perhaps in his late fifties, with dark grey hair and kind eyes, dressed in a perfectly pressed suit. He was pulling a cart with covered serving dishes, and the smell alone was enough to make John’s stomach growl.
“Hello, Dr. Watson,” the man said warmly, holding out a hand. “I’m Alexander Willoughby, the family butler. I’m very pleased to finally meet you.”
“Pleased to meet you as well,” John said heartily, shaking the man’s hand and stepping back to let him through. “That smells wonderful; thank you very much. You didn’t have to.”
“No trouble at all; we couldn’t have either of you starving, could we?” Willoughby said, and he rolled the serving cart toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder as he went. “What have you been doing to yourself, Master Sherlock? You look like death, and your brother looks worse.”
John winced at the word choice, and Sherlock saw it, but he tossed a fairly cheerful reply over the back of the couch for Willoughby’s benefit. “Oh, the usual, Willoughby, hunting down criminal masterminds and saving the world from crime and corruption. I admit I did come off a bit worse for wear this time.”
“Only to be expected when one comes back from the dead, sir,” Willoughby called back, and while the tone was light enough, there was the barest hint of a reproach in it, and Sherlock stilled before rising up and striding to the kitchen. John followed out of an almost morbid desire to know what would happen.
He wasn’t disappointed, though it was precisely the opposite of what he expected.
Sherlock walked over to where Willoughby was uncovering plates of frankly delectable lamb curry and twisting the cork out of a bottle of wine, and laid a hand on the older man’s shoulder.
“I am sorry, Willoughby,” he said contritely. “You have always taken good care of Mycroft and of me, and I know my . . . apparent death must have been very difficult. I did not wish to cause hurt, but it seemed the only solution at the time.”
As if it wasn’t amazing enough to see Sherlock apologizing to his family butler, when the butler looked up at Sherlock, his expression startled John - deep, deep affection tempered with shrewd familiarity, and just a trace of the grief that must have been much deeper than he was letting on.
“Apology accepted, Master Sherlock,” the butler said kindly. “Just don’t do it again. Your brother explained what must have been the basics of it to me, and I understand why,” and here he threw a keenly perceptive glance at John, “but losing you twice is quite enough for this family.”
John’s breath caught in his throat as Sherlock went still again, and he saw the detective’s fingers tighten further on the butler’s shoulder before his arm dropped.
“Thank you, Willoughby,” Sherlock murmured, and the butler smiled before turning his attention back to the wine bottle.
“Dinner in just a moment or two, sir, Dr. Watson,” he said, tipping his head respectfully in John’s direction as the wine cork gave with a loud pop.
John gestured at Sherlock, and the two men made their way slowly back to the living room before John wound his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and leaned their foreheads together.
“Twice?” he whispered shakily, and Sherlock’s arms came around him instinctively, comforting him.
“The drugs,” Sherlock explained, running a soothing hand up and down John’s spine. “The worst of it was when I was in my mid- and late twenties, out of uni, not enough work, not enough anything to occupy my mind, and I disappeared for days at a time. Slipped away from Mycroft’s cameras, didn’t tell anyone where I was or what I was doing. It made Mummy and Mycroft . . . quite frantic.”
John closed his eyes. “I can imagine,” he said, not quite managing to sound as neutral as he wanted; his chest ached as the feelings from the last year momentarily overwhelmed him again.
Sherlock pulled him closer, bringing John against him and nestling his head next to John’s.
“You remember when Lestrade performed that fake drugs bust, to try and get me to talk about Jennifer Wilson’s case?” he asked, and John nodded against him.
“It was Lestrade who saved my life when everything was at its worst. I had been pestering him to let me help with cases at the Yard, and he hadn’t done it, he wouldn’t let me into the crime scenes then, but he would sometimes tell me the details if he was truly stuck, and I gave him enough help that way that I think he started to trust that I knew what I was doing.”
Sherlock paused, and John could feel his friend rubbing circles over his bad shoulder, a soft continuous touch that calmed the fear sparking along his nerves.
“However, Lestrade only saw me when I was sober - which wasn’t that frequently,” Sherlock added self-deprecatingly, “ - up until the day he found me unconscious in a crack house after I’d been missing for two weeks.”
John let out a harsh breath through his nose, his hands tightening almost painfully on Sherlock’s back. “Jesus, Sherlock.”
The circular motion stopped and Sherlock’s hand simply rested over John’s shoulder blade, keeping him close.
“I was more than a little . . . lost, then,” Sherlock admitted, his voice dark, and John wondered what it was that had driven Sherlock to such desperate measures to keep his mind occupied - or to make himself forget. He wasn’t going to ask now, though, not when they were still finding their balance and this was the first time Sherlock had ever opened up to him about his drug use.
“Lestrade called an ambulance, and it was Mummy and Mycroft and Willoughby who got me through the withdrawal and the detoxing,” Sherlock went on. “Willoughby has always been very fond of me, very kind to me, even when I was a boy. He took shifts with Mycroft and Mummy, stayed with me when they needed to sleep or be out. He was . . . the only person I could really talk to after Father died, for a while. ”
John shut his eyes. He had seen detoxing patients, and the thought of seeing Sherlock like that - strung out, twitchy, feverish, in pain, vomiting - made him sick to his own stomach. The image of a younger Sherlock grieving for his father made him want to cry. Sherlock’s tone made it clear he had adored his father, and John could only feel indebted to Willoughby if he had helped Sherlock through his grief.
They were both silent for a moment, just breathing each other in, before Sherlock continued.
“Once I was clean again, Lestrade started small, feeding me things he was sure I could solve and gradually working up to the harder cases. The small cases he had solved already; I think he just wanted to see what I got from the files, but after those he started letting me into crime scenes. He also watched me like a hawk to make sure I stayed sober, and I knew he was watching. I used a few times, and he knew, but it was never that much or that dangerously again.”
“Thank God for that,” John replied, lifting his head. He studied Sherlock. “So that night, when you told Lestrade you were clean -”
“I had been for just over three years,” Sherlock finished. “I still am - but the flat wasn’t,” he admitted ruefully.
John buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, suddenly laughing. “I don’t want to know.”
“You really don’t,” Sherlock confirmed with a grin. “Plausible deniability.”
John’s grip around Sherlock’s waist tightened again. “I’ll have to thank Greg the next time I see him.”
Sherlock didn’t reply, but John felt the soft press of lips on the hair near his temple and knew he had been understood.
“Everything is ready, Master Sherlock,” said Willoughby, appearing out of the kitchen.
“Thank you, Willoughby. We appreciate it,” Sherlock said warmly, and the butler gave a quick bow and smile before letting himself out.
Sherlock took John’s hand and led him back to the kitchen, where Willoughby had laid their plates and wine on the breakfast bar, along with utensils and cloth napkins. They both sat and began to eat in companionable silence, and John almost felt overwhelmed again. Even in one of their shared silences, Sherlock’s presence was unmistakable, worlds away from the emptiness in Baker Street after his death or the deafening vacuum of John’s bedsit at night. He resisted the urge to take Sherlock’s hand again; his friend needed to eat, and John wasn’t about to impede his ability to do so.
After they had each consumed about half of their plates, he cleared his throat and ventured another question.
“After - after you were clean,” he ventured, “was that when Mycroft began to treat you like a problem? Manage you? Is that where your feud stems from?”
Sherlock paused, setting down the forkful he had been about to eat. “It grew worse after that,” he acknowledged. “The roots of our problems were already there; we had always bickered as children. Ten years difference in our ages didn’t help, either,” Sherlock admitted. “Once he knew I had been an addict, however, knew where I had been disappearing to, he was relentless in trying to keep me under control. He may have been right to do so, at first, but I resented it bitterly - and it became a habit with him, even when it was clear that I was capable of functioning on my own again.”
“I’m sorry,” John said softly. He knew that Mycroft worried constantly over Sherlock; the elder Holmes hadn’t been lying about that when John first met him. At the same time, John knew how much Sherlock craved independence and couldn’t tolerate interference with his methods or his personal life; no wonder he was so hostile about Mycroft’s endless hovering and unannounced visits.
“This year made it better,” Sherlock said reflectively. “I doubt we will ever be in perfect accord, but it helped us to have a common goal or two. I wanted Moriarty’s web gone, as did he. I wanted to come home to you; he also wanted to keep me alive.”
John sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face before giving in and reaching for Sherlock’s hand. “You know that I’m always going to feel obligated to him for this. I’m still angry with him, and I don’t think I’ve forgiven him yet, but he’s damn near killed himself trying to help you. You’re still here, partly because of him.”
Sherlock disengaged his hand from John’s in order to run the same hand through John’s hair.
“I know,” he said quietly, and John gave him a grateful look, but then Sherlock’s expression turned mischievous. “I also know that you will always pick me, and it certainly can’t hurt to have Mycroft reminded of that every once in a while.”
John grinned, a small chuckle escaping him as he thought about Mycroft’s probable response to that. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m also right,” Sherlock declared, smiling back.
“You are,” John agreed, and the kiss happened naturally then, both of them turning and leaning in until their lips met. Sherlock’s hand came up to rest along John’s jaw, and John took his hand and rested it on Sherlock’s shoulder, and suddenly they were both trembling, their kiss still gentle but feverish, as if they both needed to know that this was real, that they were together, that they were both alive and breathing and with each other. John’s head spun as Sherlock’s tongue traced his lips, and he let out a soft gasp, pressing them closer together, before they both gave up altogether and just stood, desperately trying to get closer with every shift of their mouths.
It floored John, the sheer amount of tenderness and longing and desire he felt for this man - never in a million years could he have thought, before meeting Sherlock, that he would feel this way about another person, as if every atom of his body, as if his very soul, needed Sherlock like he needed air to breathe. He thought he had lost Sherlock once, and nothing - Nothing, ever again, John thought fiercely as he moved his lips to Sherlock’s neck, softly kissing and sucking his way down - would keep him from Sherlock now or in the future, not if he had any choice in the matter.
Just as John touched his lips to the small hollow between Sherlock’s collar bones, Sherlock gripped his shoulders in an unmistakable, if unspoken, request to stop, and John immediately took a step back, trying to calm his racing heart and looking up at his best friend.
“John,” Sherlock breathed, and his heart was beating just as erratically as John’s, his lips were kiss-swollen, the bright color of his eyes was almost swallowed by his pupils, and the naked desire on his face stole John’s breath from his lungs - but there was something else there, too, some flicker of uncertainty or lack of knowledge that John immediately wanted to erase, with whatever reassurances he could give. He rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, holding him close again in silent support, and he felt Sherlock give a shuddering sigh before he spoke.
“John,” he said again, his voice low and his arms tight around John, as if he was afraid the former soldier would retreat from him, “I want this, want you, so very much, and I am - honoured that you would trust me with your heart when I have put you through so much, but - will it upset you if -”
John could think of a million endings to that thought, but none of them mattered when Sherlock was clearly struggling for words and afraid of rejection. He had to make Sherlock understand that he was going to stay, no matter what they might have to work through.
“Sherlock,” he said, taking Sherlock’s face between his palms. “I love you, and by some miracle you are standing here in front of me when I thought I had lost you forever. No matter what you say right now, it’s all right. Tell me, love. What do you need?”
Surprise flashed over Sherlock’s features at the endearment, and John felt as though he should be surprised himself - but he wasn’t. It felt natural and true, and the glowing warmth that was slowly filling Sherlock’s eyes was something he wanted to see every day for the rest of his life.
“I need to understand,” the detective admitted, reluctance and frustration both clear in his tone, and a glimmer of comprehension started to break through the worry in John’s mind. “I don’t want either of us to jump into this without knowing how we got to this point; I don’t want to create fault lines in the new part of our relationship when we’ve only just started to repair the old part. I’ve seen and done a great deal in the last year, and so have you, and those are all pieces that are missing.”
“So in other words,” John said, and he smiled in spite of himself and hoped Sherlock saw the affection in it, “you need the missing data in order to understand the whole picture. That makes perfect sense. I should have seen that coming, actually.”
Sherlock’s shoulders uncurled and relaxed with relief, and he laid another soft kiss on John’s lips. “I want to learn you, John - everything I don’t know, everything I’ve missed, either during this last year or while we were still at Baker Street. I don’t want to rush this. We have time now, time I wasn’t sure we’d ever have, and I want to take advantage of it.”
“That sounds marvelous,” John said, leaning up to return Sherlock’s kiss. He took Sherlock’s hands in his own. “Were you planning on sleeping tonight?”
Sherlock grimaced. “I’d rather not, but even I am forced to admit that my body needs the sleep. Moran caused me enough injuries that I still tire quickly, but sleep fitfully at best.”
John nodded. “Another reason we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves. My apologies for that; I wasn’t thinking very clearly,” he said, reachinge up to brush a curl off Sherlock’s forehead and giving a lopsided smile.
“That makes two of us, then,” Sherlock answered, smiling back. “Why did you ask about the sleeping?”
A knock came again at the door, and John cursed inwardly at the awful timing. Sherlock gave him a look, but went to the door himself this time. He found Willoughby carrying numerous garment bags and two additional zipped-up totes, one of which clearly contained books. Sherlock quickly reached out to divest the butler of some of the heavy load.
“Thank you, Willoughby. The courier came, then?” he said, and Willoughby nodded.
“He was just at the door, sir. This should be enough of your clothing to be going on with, and it looks like your brother has sent some books and other things for you,” Willoughby said.
“Excellent,” Sherlock said in satisfaction. “If I get bored I can always start picking the locks on his filing cabinets.”
“I’ve no doubt you would, sir,” Willoughby said cheerfully. “Just keep me out of it when he finds out.”
“Of course, Willoughby; I’d never let you see me do it anyway,” Sherlock said, pretending to be affronted, and the butler merely winked at him before bowing and heading down the hall.
“I’m beginning to see what you must have been like as a child,” John teased as Sherlock turned back toward him, sauntering through the living room on his long legs. “Brilliant and therefore in all kinds of trouble.”
“Nothing much has changed, then.”
“I’m afraid not,” John rejoined, and they were both grinning again. John had forgotten how it felt to smile this much, to share jokes and banter and laughter with Sherlock, and going by the softness in his friend’s eyes, it seemed Sherlock had forgotten it too.
“Why did you ask about the sleeping?” Sherlock questioned again, and John cleared his throat, remembering where they were before Willoughby knocked.
“I was hoping - I was hoping you would stay with me,” John requested shyly, stumbling over his words a bit in his nervousness. “Even if you don’ t sleep at all, even if you’re restless, just - having you next to me would - help. I really don’t want to wake up tomorrow and think I dreamed all of this.”
Sherlock rested a hand on John’s cheek, and when he spoke his tone was some uniquely Sherlockian mixture of arrogance, teasing, and tenderness that was only possible for him.
“And what makes you think that I would have been willing to let you out of my sight again, even if you had wanted to sleep alone?” he asked softly, with a slow smile, and John could only nod, turning his head to place a grateful kiss at the base of Sherlock’s palm.
“Shall we finish the curry, then?” he said. “There’s bound to be something ridiculous on the telly, just waiting for you to tear the contestants to pieces.”
“Mmm, sounds invigorating,” Sherlock agreed with a wink, and the two of them went to retrieve their plates from the kitchen.
Chapter Five
Wounded With His Wounded Heart - Chapter FourJohn really needed very little at the bedsit. Leaving Sherlock and Anthea in the car, he swiftly packed several changes of clothing into a duffle bag, placed several smaller items, his Browning, and his toiletries on top, grabbed his laptop bag, and finally picked up a double-locked Pelican case that had also been securely fastened to his bedframe.
He made sure to lock his room as he left, and when he emerged back on the street, Sherlock got out of the car to help him put the bags in the trunk, giving John a curious look as he saw the locked case.
“You’ll see,” John said with a laugh. “I’ll show you when we get to Mycroft’s, I promise.”
The second leg of their journey was, thankfully, considerably shorter than the first, and John had to keep his jaw from dropping as they pulled up to an imposing building in Knightsbridge, one of London’s most expensive neighborhoods.
Anthea led the way this time, punching in a long code at the door and nodding to the guards in the foyer before leading them into the main part of the house. Unlike before, in the car, John wasn’t able to keep himself from gaping. The house was beautiful. Anthea was moving swiftly, and so he only had a blurred impression of high ceilings, beautiful archways, marble, flowers, and glass, but everything simply breathed taste and expense. They went up a large staircase in the center hall, and turned to the right at the top, going down the hallway until they were confronted with another set of double doors.
“This is one of the guest suites, and will be yours while you’re here,” Anthea said with a small smile. “Mr. Holmes, I’m sure you remember the layout of the house, so I’ll leave it to you to show Dr. Watson around.”
Sherlock looked startled to realize that Anthea was addressing him, but he nodded, and John reflected that his reaction was understandable; coming from Anthea, “Mr. Holmes” was always Mycroft. Anthea nodded back in acknowledgement, then turned the door handles and preceded them into the room.
The suite was, like everything else about Mycroft, immaculate, expensive, and tasteful, though John wasn’t expecting the warmth of the place. The dark wood and rich russet upholstery made everything feel cozy. Books lined the built-in shelves; there was a large sofa and two comfortable-looking reading chairs, and a wide coffee table that was clearly meant to hold books and files. There was a large fireplace with an ornately carved wooden mantle taking up most of one wall, with a beautiful flatscreen television anchored above it, and Anthea efficiently lit the fire that was already laid in the grate.
Off the living area there was a fairly large kitchen, and that space was more modern, with dark quartz countertops and stainless steel appliances, but the same warm finish throughout. Opposite the kitchen was an office, full of filing cabinets, more books, and a desk that John thought was suited to a high-end government official - huge, heavy, and capacious. It was clear, though, so presumably it was meant for the use of guests. A small hallway in the back led, he assumed, to the bedrooms and bathroom, and altogether John thought it would be a lovely, luxurious place to spend a few days.
Sherlock unceremoniously dropped John’s duffel and laptop inside the doorway and took off his coat, draping it carelessly over a chair. He then lowered himself gingerly to the sofa and resumed his thinking pose that had been interrupted in Mycroft’s office - something else that made John smile. He saw Anthea press her lips together at the strewn belongings; clearly she was used to Mycroft’s fastidiousness about his personal space. Sherlock doubtless knew that it would upset his brother to leave things lying about, even in guest rooms that had been assigned as theirs, and John gave a slight shake of his head at Sherlock and gave Anthea what he hoped was an apologetic smile.
“Thank you so much,” he said. “We really appreciate it.”
“It’s no problem at all, Dr. Watson,” Anthea said, giving him a glance that let him know she trusted him to keep Sherlock at least somewhat in line during their stay. “A courier should be here in an hour or two with some of Sherlock’s things. They’ll ring the bell.”
“Oh,” she added, “I should give you the code for the front door, in case you need it.” She took out her Blackberry and typed a quick text, and John heard the ping of his own phone as it was received. “Memorize it and delete that, if you can,” she said to John, and John nodded in understanding; the security key for Mycroft’s home was not something that should be readily available from someone’s phone. It didn’t surprise him at all that Anthea had his mobile number; that was easily within Mycroft’s reach.
“Right then, I’ll be off,” Anthea said, moving briskly toward the door. “I’ll pick up a few of Mr. Holmes’s things before I go and take them back to the Diogenes. There should be plenty of food and drinks up here, but if there’s anything you need, just ring for Willoughby. I’m sure Sherlock remembers.”
Sherlock cracked an eye open at the mention of his name, and John mouthed “Willoughby?” at him as the door clicked shut after Anthea, which produced a smile from Sherlock.
“The butler; he’s been with us since Mycroft was in his teens and I was just a boy,” Sherlock explained.
John shook his head. Sometimes there really were no words for how stark the differences were between the British classes.
Belatedly, he realized that he was still holding the Pelican case; he’d been so busy looking around and then listening to Anthea that he hadn’t bothered to set it down. He did so now, putting it on the table next to Sherlock and shedding his coat, hanging it on the coat rack by the door, before claiming the armchair next to Sherlock’s head for his own.
Sherlock had sat up and was studying the case, looking so confused by it that John grinned.
“You aren’t in the army anymore; you keep your Browning on you as much as possible, and if it’s not on your person it’s in the bedside drawer; the case is too big for a small firearm anyway; why would you still have a Pelican case?” Sherlock murmured.
“Well, properly speaking, I didn’t. You know that; you would have seen it if I had it before. I just knew where to get one when I needed it,” John smiled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key for the padlocks, handing it to Sherlock. The detective unlocked them deftly, and then John reached over and spun the combination lock, though he knew Sherlock’s eyes would follow the numbers. He sat back once he pulled the lock off, waiting, but Sherlock still appeared to hesitate.
“Well, go on then,” John urged him, and Sherlock blinked, clearly taking himself out of his mental deduction space, before reaching out and lifting the lid.
His cherished Stradivarius lay nestled in the foam, looking for all the world as if he had set it down in Baker Street hours ago, rather than over a year ago. It was immaculate; not a bit of dust dulled the smooth wood of the instrument or the bow, and John had asked the manufacturers to include slots for the rosin and tuning fork as well.
“John,” the detective breathed, reaching out slowly to run his fingers over the instrument. He raised his eyes to the army doctor, shock and adoration mixing in his face, and John felt his heart jump at the look. “You kept it. You had it, all this time. Why?” the detective asked, and John’s face twisted into a confused frown at the honest curiosity in Sherlock’s voice.
“You didn’t know I had it? I thought surely Mycroft would have told you. He never said anything to me, but I figured he must have known, even though he never asked me about it.”
“Perhaps he did know,” Sherlock said slowly. “I never asked for it or inquired where it was. I was never anywhere that would have allowed me to play, never anywhere long enough, and in any case I would not have wanted to carry it about and risk damaging it. The only time I played while I was gone was in a gypsy camp - I’ll get to that,” Sherlock preempted him, as John opened his mouth to ask. “But I didn’t - I never thought that you would have it. I thought Mycroft must have kept it; it is a valuable piece, aside from being mine. You hated being woken up by my playing, John; why would you keep a reminder of something that was so clearly obnoxious to you?”
John shook his head in disagreement, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I didn’t hate being woken up by your playing, Sherlock - the only time that was true was when you were frustrated and made your violin imitate something like a dying cat,” he said with a small chuckle. “I did not appreciate that at 3 am. But I loved hearing you play, and it never mattered when. I thought - I often thought that it helped keep the nightmares away, actually,” John admitted, his cheeks going faintly pink. “When - when you would play before I was asleep, I slept better - and if I had a nightmare but then you started playing after I woke up, it was easier to sleep again.”
Sherlock simply stared at him. “You never said anything.”
John rubbed the back of his neck, his nerves suddenly getting the better of him. “Yes, well, it hardly seemed like something I could mention at the time. I was sure you must have noticed at some point - you notice everything - but you never said anything, and so I didn’t either. And you played often enough while we were awake, and that was -” John stopped, at a loss for words, and his mouth went dry as Sherlock reached out and took his hand again, stroking one thumb over his knuckles.
“It was what?” Sherlock prompted, and John looked up at him. There was still only inquisitiveness there; Sherlock wanted to know, and he wanted John to be comfortable telling him. There was no coyness, no previously deduced knowledge of what John would say, and John abruptly realized that Sherlock was utterly unaware of the picture he presented when he was entirely focused on creating music.
“Sherlock, do you honestly not know how gorgeous you are when you play?” John asked frankly, and Sherlock’s cheeks went as pink as John’s had been a minute before, but he deflected it with his usual sarcasm, though it was much warmer in tone than it was with anyone else.
“Really, John, how much of a narcissist do you think I am?” he quipped, and John raised his brows.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” he returned dryly, and then they were both grinning, the tension broken and the ease returning.
Still smiling, John studied their hands as he resumed speaking, glancing up at Sherlock every now and then, somehow enjoying the contrast between the detective’s long, slender musician’s hands and his own slightly broader tan ones. “Sherlock, watching you play - for me, anyway, it’s like seeing the things you hide from everyone else, like you’re channeling all of your emotions into the music instead of showing them to the people around you. It’s - breathtaking. It took me ages to even realize why, why I couldn’t tear my eyes away from you when you had that violin in your hands - but once I understood it, I couldn’t see anything else.”
“And that,” he added quietly, “is why I took your violin with me, when I left Baker Street. Because I saw your heart most often when you played, and it was beautiful.”
Sherlock was silent for a long time, and John’s stomach began to turn with uneasiness. He looked up at his best friend again, searching.
“Too much?” he questioned carefully. Sherlock hadn’t let go of his hand, and John resisted the urge to tighten his grip; he didn’t want to give Sherlock any reason to pull away.
Sherlock still looked dazed, but he shook his head decisively in the negative. “No. No, John, I am just - surprised. You continually manage to confound my expectations. Even though I think I know you better than anyone, I am unable to always predict how you will react to something or what you will choose to observe. I suppose that is why you are a source of endless fascination,” he admitted with a smile. “I never thought you would see so much in something I do all the time, particularly because you seemed to find it an annoyance. I’m really almost upset that I failed to observe you, when you were observing me so intently,” he finished, sounding vexed, and John laughed.
“I’ll take it as a compliment that I manage to get anything past you at all,” he answered. “Even genius consulting detectives are not omniscient, and I’m thankful for it.”
“I also never realized I was quite so . . . unguarded when I played,” Sherlock said after a pause, and John could hear the discomfort, the vulnerability in the statement, and it made him flinch internally. “I have always used music to . . . feel my way through a case, let my mind work in the background while I focused on playing. Music has always let me release my emotions, let me refocus my thoughts on the logical progression of events, and so I never censored myself . . . but I suppose I had gotten used to playing without an audience. I never really played for you, did I?” he wondered rhetorically.
John didn’t feel that needed a response, and Sherlock removed the violin from its case tentatively, stroking it with his long fingers as though he didn’t quite remember the feel of it -and he probably didn’t, John thought; it had certainly been long enough.
Sherlock looked over at him, his eyes warm and bright. “I’ll play for you. I’ll have to practice a bit,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling up, “but I’ll play for you when we’re back at the flat.”
John swallowed the lump in his throat. “That would be wonderful.”
Just then, there was a knock at the door, and Sherlock turned his head, cutting off any attempt John would have made to continue speaking. John stood, with a small sigh, and went to answer it, knowing that Sherlock probably didn’t want to move if he was comfortable.
When John opened the door, he was confronted with a man who was perhaps in his late fifties, with dark grey hair and kind eyes, dressed in a perfectly pressed suit. He was pulling a cart with covered serving dishes, and the smell alone was enough to make John’s stomach growl.
“Hello, Dr. Watson,” the man said warmly, holding out a hand. “I’m Alexander Willoughby, the family butler. I’m very pleased to finally meet you.”
“Pleased to meet you as well,” John said heartily, shaking the man’s hand and stepping back to let him through. “That smells wonderful; thank you very much. You didn’t have to.”
“No trouble at all; we couldn’t have either of you starving, could we?” Willoughby said, and he rolled the serving cart toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder as he went. “What have you been doing to yourself, Master Sherlock? You look like death, and your brother looks worse.”
John winced at the word choice, and Sherlock saw it, but he tossed a fairly cheerful reply over the back of the couch for Willoughby’s benefit. “Oh, the usual, Willoughby, hunting down criminal masterminds and saving the world from crime and corruption. I admit I did come off a bit worse for wear this time.”
“Only to be expected when one comes back from the dead, sir,” Willoughby called back, and while the tone was light enough, there was the barest hint of a reproach in it, and Sherlock stilled before rising up and striding to the kitchen. John followed out of an almost morbid desire to know what would happen.
He wasn’t disappointed, though it was precisely the opposite of what he expected.
Sherlock walked over to where Willoughby was uncovering plates of frankly delectable lamb curry and twisting the cork out of a bottle of wine, and laid a hand on the older man’s shoulder.
“I am sorry, Willoughby,” he said contritely. “You have always taken good care of Mycroft and of me, and I know my . . . apparent death must have been very difficult. I did not wish to cause hurt, but it seemed the only solution at the time.”
As if it wasn’t amazing enough to see Sherlock apologizing to his family butler, when the butler looked up at Sherlock, his expression startled John - deep, deep affection tempered with shrewd familiarity, and just a trace of the grief that must have been much deeper than he was letting on.
“Apology accepted, Master Sherlock,” the butler said kindly. “Just don’t do it again. Your brother explained what must have been the basics of it to me, and I understand why,” and here he threw a keenly perceptive glance at John, “but losing you twice is quite enough for this family.”
John’s breath caught in his throat as Sherlock went still again, and he saw the detective’s fingers tighten further on the butler’s shoulder before his arm dropped.
“Thank you, Willoughby,” Sherlock murmured, and the butler smiled before turning his attention back to the wine bottle.
“Dinner in just a moment or two, sir, Dr. Watson,” he said, tipping his head respectfully in John’s direction as the wine cork gave with a loud pop.
John gestured at Sherlock, and the two men made their way slowly back to the living room before John wound his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and leaned their foreheads together.
“Twice?” he whispered shakily, and Sherlock’s arms came around him instinctively, comforting him.
“The drugs,” Sherlock explained, running a soothing hand up and down John’s spine. “The worst of it was when I was in my mid- and late twenties, out of uni, not enough work, not enough anything to occupy my mind, and I disappeared for days at a time. Slipped away from Mycroft’s cameras, didn’t tell anyone where I was or what I was doing. It made Mummy and Mycroft . . . quite frantic.”
John closed his eyes. “I can imagine,” he said, not quite managing to sound as neutral as he wanted; his chest ached as the feelings from the last year momentarily overwhelmed him again.
Sherlock pulled him closer, bringing John against him and nestling his head next to John’s.
“You remember when Lestrade performed that fake drugs bust, to try and get me to talk about Jennifer Wilson’s case?” he asked, and John nodded against him.
“It was Lestrade who saved my life when everything was at its worst. I had been pestering him to let me help with cases at the Yard, and he hadn’t done it, he wouldn’t let me into the crime scenes then, but he would sometimes tell me the details if he was truly stuck, and I gave him enough help that way that I think he started to trust that I knew what I was doing.”
Sherlock paused, and John could feel his friend rubbing circles over his bad shoulder, a soft continuous touch that calmed the fear sparking along his nerves.
“However, Lestrade only saw me when I was sober - which wasn’t that frequently,” Sherlock added self-deprecatingly, “ - up until the day he found me unconscious in a crack house after I’d been missing for two weeks.”
John let out a harsh breath through his nose, his hands tightening almost painfully on Sherlock’s back. “Jesus, Sherlock.”
The circular motion stopped and Sherlock’s hand simply rested over John’s shoulder blade, keeping him close.
“I was more than a little . . . lost, then,” Sherlock admitted, his voice dark, and John wondered what it was that had driven Sherlock to such desperate measures to keep his mind occupied - or to make himself forget. He wasn’t going to ask now, though, not when they were still finding their balance and this was the first time Sherlock had ever opened up to him about his drug use.
“Lestrade called an ambulance, and it was Mummy and Mycroft and Willoughby who got me through the withdrawal and the detoxing,” Sherlock went on. “Willoughby has always been very fond of me, very kind to me, even when I was a boy. He took shifts with Mycroft and Mummy, stayed with me when they needed to sleep or be out. He was . . . the only person I could really talk to after Father died, for a while. ”
John shut his eyes. He had seen detoxing patients, and the thought of seeing Sherlock like that - strung out, twitchy, feverish, in pain, vomiting - made him sick to his own stomach. The image of a younger Sherlock grieving for his father made him want to cry. Sherlock’s tone made it clear he had adored his father, and John could only feel indebted to Willoughby if he had helped Sherlock through his grief.
They were both silent for a moment, just breathing each other in, before Sherlock continued.
“Once I was clean again, Lestrade started small, feeding me things he was sure I could solve and gradually working up to the harder cases. The small cases he had solved already; I think he just wanted to see what I got from the files, but after those he started letting me into crime scenes. He also watched me like a hawk to make sure I stayed sober, and I knew he was watching. I used a few times, and he knew, but it was never that much or that dangerously again.”
“Thank God for that,” John replied, lifting his head. He studied Sherlock. “So that night, when you told Lestrade you were clean -”
“I had been for just over three years,” Sherlock finished. “I still am - but the flat wasn’t,” he admitted ruefully.
John buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, suddenly laughing. “I don’t want to know.”
“You really don’t,” Sherlock confirmed with a grin. “Plausible deniability.”
John’s grip around Sherlock’s waist tightened again. “I’ll have to thank Greg the next time I see him.”
Sherlock didn’t reply, but John felt the soft press of lips on the hair near his temple and knew he had been understood.
“Everything is ready, Master Sherlock,” said Willoughby, appearing out of the kitchen.
“Thank you, Willoughby. We appreciate it,” Sherlock said warmly, and the butler gave a quick bow and smile before letting himself out.
Sherlock took John’s hand and led him back to the kitchen, where Willoughby had laid their plates and wine on the breakfast bar, along with utensils and cloth napkins. They both sat and began to eat in companionable silence, and John almost felt overwhelmed again. Even in one of their shared silences, Sherlock’s presence was unmistakable, worlds away from the emptiness in Baker Street after his death or the deafening vacuum of John’s bedsit at night. He resisted the urge to take Sherlock’s hand again; his friend needed to eat, and John wasn’t about to impede his ability to do so.
After they had each consumed about half of their plates, he cleared his throat and ventured another question.
“After - after you were clean,” he ventured, “was that when Mycroft began to treat you like a problem? Manage you? Is that where your feud stems from?”
Sherlock paused, setting down the forkful he had been about to eat. “It grew worse after that,” he acknowledged. “The roots of our problems were already there; we had always bickered as children. Ten years difference in our ages didn’t help, either,” Sherlock admitted. “Once he knew I had been an addict, however, knew where I had been disappearing to, he was relentless in trying to keep me under control. He may have been right to do so, at first, but I resented it bitterly - and it became a habit with him, even when it was clear that I was capable of functioning on my own again.”
“I’m sorry,” John said softly. He knew that Mycroft worried constantly over Sherlock; the elder Holmes hadn’t been lying about that when John first met him. At the same time, John knew how much Sherlock craved independence and couldn’t tolerate interference with his methods or his personal life; no wonder he was so hostile about Mycroft’s endless hovering and unannounced visits.
“This year made it better,” Sherlock said reflectively. “I doubt we will ever be in perfect accord, but it helped us to have a common goal or two. I wanted Moriarty’s web gone, as did he. I wanted to come home to you; he also wanted to keep me alive.”
John sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face before giving in and reaching for Sherlock’s hand. “You know that I’m always going to feel obligated to him for this. I’m still angry with him, and I don’t think I’ve forgiven him yet, but he’s damn near killed himself trying to help you. You’re still here, partly because of him.”
Sherlock disengaged his hand from John’s in order to run the same hand through John’s hair.
“I know,” he said quietly, and John gave him a grateful look, but then Sherlock’s expression turned mischievous. “I also know that you will always pick me, and it certainly can’t hurt to have Mycroft reminded of that every once in a while.”
John grinned, a small chuckle escaping him as he thought about Mycroft’s probable response to that. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m also right,” Sherlock declared, smiling back.
“You are,” John agreed, and the kiss happened naturally then, both of them turning and leaning in until their lips met. Sherlock’s hand came up to rest along John’s jaw, and John took his hand and rested it on Sherlock’s shoulder, and suddenly they were both trembling, their kiss still gentle but feverish, as if they both needed to know that this was real, that they were together, that they were both alive and breathing and with each other. John’s head spun as Sherlock’s tongue traced his lips, and he let out a soft gasp, pressing them closer together, before they both gave up altogether and just stood, desperately trying to get closer with every shift of their mouths.
It floored John, the sheer amount of tenderness and longing and desire he felt for this man - never in a million years could he have thought, before meeting Sherlock, that he would feel this way about another person, as if every atom of his body, as if his very soul, needed Sherlock like he needed air to breathe. He thought he had lost Sherlock once, and nothing - Nothing, ever again, John thought fiercely as he moved his lips to Sherlock’s neck, softly kissing and sucking his way down - would keep him from Sherlock now or in the future, not if he had any choice in the matter.
Just as John touched his lips to the small hollow between Sherlock’s collar bones, Sherlock gripped his shoulders in an unmistakable, if unspoken, request to stop, and John immediately took a step back, trying to calm his racing heart and looking up at his best friend.
“John,” Sherlock breathed, and his heart was beating just as erratically as John’s, his lips were kiss-swollen, the bright color of his eyes was almost swallowed by his pupils, and the naked desire on his face stole John’s breath from his lungs - but there was something else there, too, some flicker of uncertainty or lack of knowledge that John immediately wanted to erase, with whatever reassurances he could give. He rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, holding him close again in silent support, and he felt Sherlock give a shuddering sigh before he spoke.
“John,” he said again, his voice low and his arms tight around John, as if he was afraid the former soldier would retreat from him, “I want this, want you, so very much, and I am - honoured that you would trust me with your heart when I have put you through so much, but - will it upset you if -”
John could think of a million endings to that thought, but none of them mattered when Sherlock was clearly struggling for words and afraid of rejection. He had to make Sherlock understand that he was going to stay, no matter what they might have to work through.
“Sherlock,” he said, taking Sherlock’s face between his palms. “I love you, and by some miracle you are standing here in front of me when I thought I had lost you forever. No matter what you say right now, it’s all right. Tell me, love. What do you need?”
Surprise flashed over Sherlock’s features at the endearment, and John felt as though he should be surprised himself - but he wasn’t. It felt natural and true, and the glowing warmth that was slowly filling Sherlock’s eyes was something he wanted to see every day for the rest of his life.
“I need to understand,” the detective admitted, reluctance and frustration both clear in his tone, and a glimmer of comprehension started to break through the worry in John’s mind. “I don’t want either of us to jump into this without knowing how we got to this point; I don’t want to create fault lines in the new part of our relationship when we’ve only just started to repair the old part. I’ve seen and done a great deal in the last year, and so have you, and those are all pieces that are missing.”
“So in other words,” John said, and he smiled in spite of himself and hoped Sherlock saw the affection in it, “you need the missing data in order to understand the whole picture. That makes perfect sense. I should have seen that coming, actually.”
Sherlock’s shoulders uncurled and relaxed with relief, and he laid another soft kiss on John’s lips. “I want to learn you, John - everything I don’t know, everything I’ve missed, either during this last year or while we were still at Baker Street. I don’t want to rush this. We have time now, time I wasn’t sure we’d ever have, and I want to take advantage of it.”
“That sounds marvelous,” John said, leaning up to return Sherlock’s kiss. He took Sherlock’s hands in his own. “Were you planning on sleeping tonight?”
Sherlock grimaced. “I’d rather not, but even I am forced to admit that my body needs the sleep. Moran caused me enough injuries that I still tire quickly, but sleep fitfully at best.”
John nodded. “Another reason we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves. My apologies for that; I wasn’t thinking very clearly,” he said, reachinge up to brush a curl off Sherlock’s forehead and giving a lopsided smile.
“That makes two of us, then,” Sherlock answered, smiling back. “Why did you ask about the sleeping?”
A knock came again at the door, and John cursed inwardly at the awful timing. Sherlock gave him a look, but went to the door himself this time. He found Willoughby carrying numerous garment bags and two additional zipped-up totes, one of which clearly contained books. Sherlock quickly reached out to divest the butler of some of the heavy load.
“Thank you, Willoughby. The courier came, then?” he said, and Willoughby nodded.
“He was just at the door, sir. This should be enough of your clothing to be going on with, and it looks like your brother has sent some books and other things for you,” Willoughby said.
“Excellent,” Sherlock said in satisfaction. “If I get bored I can always start picking the locks on his filing cabinets.”
“I’ve no doubt you would, sir,” Willoughby said cheerfully. “Just keep me out of it when he finds out.”
“Of course, Willoughby; I’d never let you see me do it anyway,” Sherlock said, pretending to be affronted, and the butler merely winked at him before bowing and heading down the hall.
“I’m beginning to see what you must have been like as a child,” John teased as Sherlock turned back toward him, sauntering through the living room on his long legs. “Brilliant and therefore in all kinds of trouble.”
“Nothing much has changed, then.”
“I’m afraid not,” John rejoined, and they were both grinning again. John had forgotten how it felt to smile this much, to share jokes and banter and laughter with Sherlock, and going by the softness in his friend’s eyes, it seemed Sherlock had forgotten it too.
“Why did you ask about the sleeping?” Sherlock questioned again, and John cleared his throat, remembering where they were before Willoughby knocked.
“I was hoping - I was hoping you would stay with me,” John requested shyly, stumbling over his words a bit in his nervousness. “Even if you don’ t sleep at all, even if you’re restless, just - having you next to me would - help. I really don’t want to wake up tomorrow and think I dreamed all of this.”
Sherlock rested a hand on John’s cheek, and when he spoke his tone was some uniquely Sherlockian mixture of arrogance, teasing, and tenderness that was only possible for him.
“And what makes you think that I would have been willing to let you out of my sight again, even if you had wanted to sleep alone?” he asked softly, with a slow smile, and John could only nod, turning his head to place a grateful kiss at the base of Sherlock’s palm.
“Shall we finish the curry, then?” he said. “There’s bound to be something ridiculous on the telly, just waiting for you to tear the contestants to pieces.”
“Mmm, sounds invigorating,” Sherlock agreed with a wink, and the two of them went to retrieve their plates from the kitchen.
Chapter Five