The Science Of Love
Title: The Science Of Love
Warnings: mentions of drugs
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Summary: Is John capable of loving Sherlock? Is Sherlock capable of love?
As they sat in their favourite Chinese restaurant, John Watson tried not to think about what had happened only an hour before finding himself here. As usual he was seated opposite Sherlock who continued to silently study his surroundings and make deductions about God knows what. He stared down at his plate of food, barely even acknowledging its existence. He kept trying to focus on Sherlock; Sherlock’s calm eyes (though they didn’t seem too calm at the moment), his thoughtful expression, his hands pressed together underneath his chin, his brow occasionally creasing when a new idea came to mind.
He breathed out a heavy sigh, propping his head up on top of his clasped hands, closing his eyes for a brief moment, trying to get a grip. His ears were still ringing from being hit across the head with a cricket bat. His wrists were still burning from where the rope had tightly bound them together. His bad shoulder still hurt considerably more than usual from the way Sherlock had dragged him up off the ground and out of the building. His head was still throbbing from where it had hit the cement pillar after he had been thrown forwards by the explosion.
Everything slowly came back into focus as John regained consciousness. He looked across to see Sherlock working his hands out of the rope that bound him to the cage behind him. He wasn’t used to seeing such a frustrated, almost upset look on the man’s face. A wave of nausea consumed him briefly, but he fought it down.
“Sherlock?” He called croakily, his voice echoing around the unfamiliar car park.
Sherlock looked up at John, surprising yet obvious panic written in every inch of his features.
“Sherlock, what’s -“ he paused, feeling something touch the bare skin.
He glanced down and swallowed the feeling of dread that suddenly engulfed him. Attached to his chest was undoubtedly a bomb, its cold wires brushing his skin every time he took a breath in. A small digital clock read 0:32. The dread rose up as bile in his throat as the number switched to 0:31. It wasn’t a clock, it was a bomb.
Before he even had time to look up, Sherlock was by his side, quickly untying the ropes around his wrists.
“You’re not wearing a shirt” John commented weakly, but Sherlock said nothing.
He grabbed Johns arm, yanking him up from the floor, sending a surge of pain through his left shoulder as he did so, and grabbed John’s shirt from the ground in the same movement. His cold fingers scrambled at John’s bare chest, sending shivers down his spine.
“What are you… What…” He couldn’t get his words out properly, the ringing in his ears and the nausea both building now he was standing.
He swallowed again, his mind slowly catching up. The bombs. He managed to catch 0:25 change to 0:24 before Sherlock grabbed tossed the seemingly harmless device aside, dragging John with a considerable amount of force as he ran. John tried to force his feet to obey, but his brain was still having a difficult time keeping up.
BOOM!
John jumped slightly, Sherlock’s hand on his back jolting him from his thoughts. Truth be told, despite the war, and despite often finding himself in life threatening situations, he never really got used to the idea of almost being blown up.
He stood up numbly, realising that was an invitation to leave. He noticed Sherlock looked on the verge of saying something, but nothing was said.
“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked John quietly a few minutes after leaving the restaurant.
John laughed nervously, glancing at Sherlock sideways for a moment.
“I’m not as good as you are at these things” He commented quietly, always feeling just that little bit weaker in comparison to Sherlock. “I’m fine. Just need to sleep, I suppose.” He figured this was true. He always felt more relaxed once he had slept. “Are you…? Alright, I mean.”
“You didn’t… I should have… I’m sorry” Sherlock muttered, completely ignoring John’s own question.
It was unusual for Sherlock to struggle with words, he thought. It was even more unusual for Sherlock to apologise. Yet here he was, doing both, with an added pained expression he had never seen on that flawless face before.
“Don’t be.”
John felt Sherlock’s hand touch his own, and he glanced up at him. He was looking back down at him, a look of genuine concern on his face for a small moment before his face went blank again. He realised they had both stopped walking, and that their hands were still touching, with Sherlock’s fingers ever so slightly curled around John’s hand.
“Sherlock, what are you…. Are you okay?”
Sherlock’s face twisted into an expression John didn’t recognise, but within a second, the expression was gone and Sherlock was walking again, a look of deep concentration on his face.
“Sherlock?”
“Hm? Yes. I’m fine” he replied, dropping his hand back to his side, almost as though he had only just realised he had held his hand in the first place.
It was clear to John that Sherlock was anything but fine. He knew he wasn’t as good at deductions as Sherlock was, but he wasn’t completely hopeless. He could tell when something was wrong, and something was indeed wrong. He doubted it had anything to do with the fact that they had both been outsmarted, caught and tied up in a building wired with bombs. The only thing from that situation that would have bothered Sherlock was the fact that he was outsmarted, but the look on his face definitely didn’t match that conclusion. Something else was going on inside that brilliant brain of his.
His hand was still tingling from where Sherlock had held it moments before. Before he could think too much about it, John took his hand again, this time properly and a little less awkwardly. However, within seconds, his hand was left hanging uselessly by his side again, a small distracted noise issuing from Sherlock’s mouth as he hurried his pace, as though trying to avoid it from happening again.
---
Sherlock opened the front door and hurriedly headed up the stairs, not allowing himself to look back. As per usual, his mind was racing.
What’s so different about John? Why do I care about him when I care about no one else? Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft… if any of them died, I would do nothing. I would carry on as normal, unaffected. I don’t care. So why do I care about John? What has he done to me?
He suppressed a cry of frustration as he slumped himself down across the lounge, kicking his shoes off over the edge. Solid facts he could deal with. Emotions, he couldn’t.
I need him. He reasoned to himself, trying to reduce it to facts. He’s another opinion. A wrong opinion, generally. When he suggest something that is completely off, it pushes me in the right direction a lot faster. He’s intelligent. An idiot, but definitely more intelligent than most people I’ve met. He has a heart. I don’t understand why he cares, but the fact that he cares stops me from getting side tracked. He does the caring, I do the working. He completes me.
Everything he had thought seemed about right, but the fact that someone meant that much to him still didn’t settle right with him, even though there were logical, rational explanations. He reached for his nicotine patches.
“Sherlock. Sherlock, we’re out of milk.” he heard John’s voice strike through his train of thought as he placed four patches on his forearm.
It was clear that wasn’t what John had wanted to say. Sherlock knew he was concerned, and that was another thing that didn’t sit right with him. Someone caring. Mycroft was the only one Sherlock could ever remember caring about him, but he definitely had a strange way of showing it. A way that Sherlock could ignore. But John was different. John was there, making sure he was okay, stopping him from overdosing on drugs or burning the flat down in the middle of an experiment. John cared about the one person everyone else found impossible to care about.
“I’ll erm… Get some from the shops tomorrow.” John continued after a long pause.
Sherlock ignored him, the world outside his brain growing fuzzy as he placed a fifth patch on his arm, the sound of John heading upstairs to his room only just reaching his ears before everything was blocked out.
Don’t think about John. Think about the case.
Whoever had taken us had a clear motive - get us out of the way. Sherlock deducted, calming down as he returned to his comfort zone. Three messages from Lestrade meant something had happened. Doubt it was unrelated. Things like that rarely are. Someone didn’t want us meddling. We had been followed from the house. They knew I knew. They made it quite obvious, so I deduced they had to be a distraction from a second party following us. A more discreet party. But I never even thought about a third party. I never even thought that our followers would be one step ahead of me. No one gets one step ahead of me. They obviously know how I work. Obviously quite smart. They knew I would think of the second, well hidden party. They knew I wouldn’t think of a third party because I would be too busy working out answers for myself. By the time I had worked out how to evade the first and second party of followers, the third had closed in and then… I woke up in a 4 story car park, one below ground, three above. They had been tied on the ground floor. Why the ground floor, where it would be so easy to escape? Unless… Oh. They wanted us to believe we could escape, but expected us to fail. After all, I rarely have to demonstrate how quick I am with untying ropes….
Sherlock’s mind continued all through the night, though after quickly deciding he needed more data to come to a proper conclusion, his mind turned to John; John with no shirt on in the car park. John with that caring expression he seldom saw aimed at him. John who had saved his life. John with a bomb strapped to his chest for the second time in a month. Stupid John, funny John, loyal John, caring John. His John.
The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs filled his ears and a soft sigh slipped past his lips as his eyes fluttered open, resting on John’s face as he yawned.
“We’re going out” He said matter-of-factly, jumping up from the sofa with energy only Sherlock could pull off after a sleepless night.
Fifteen minutes later they were dressed and entering Scotland Yard, not at all to Lestrade’s surprise.
“Was about to call you in, actually.” The DI admitted as he invited Sherlock and John into his office, despite the fact that they were halfway in anyway. “We’re completely-“
“Our of your depth, I know” Sherlock cut in, sounding more irritated than usual.
He had been hoping for something more. He had been hoping that Lestrade and his team would have been able to give him something to go off, even if, in their eyes, it meant nothing. But he could already tell they had nothing. No lead. No witnesses. Nothing.
“I’m sure you already know what you’ve been called in for? You always do.”
Sherlock frowned as he sat down, pressing his palms together underneath his chin. He could feel John’s eyes on him, but didn’t turn to look. Lestrade was talking away, describing the carpark incident, completely unaware he and John had been there when it happened, and had almost seen death yet again.
“Your bomber has people working for him. Lots of people working for him. One of those people is about my height, tanned skin, slick black hair and wears black rimmed glasses. He is German, mid twenties and extremely skinny. There’s a pair of twins, too. They’re Vietnamese, both 5’4, also thin. Go by the names Jack and Bob, but that’s not their real names. Then there are three more. One three inches taller than myself, well built, wears Jean Paul Gaultier and is French. The second is also French and the third is Canadian, but I know no more than that. But there will be more out there than those I can name.”
Once Sherlock had finished, both men stared at him in surprise, as always. He rolled his eyes, reading their questions on their expressions without them even needing to speak.
“John and I have been followed by three parties for the past three days. Somebody wants to get to me, and they are taking great measures to do so.” He couldn’t help but smile as he spoke, his own words filling him with excitement at the promise of a new game. “If you find anything, do let me know”
Sherlock rose gracefully from his chair and strode out of the office, knowing John was following him without even needing to glance back and check. John always followed him. His smile softened.
---
“Something the matter?” John asked, peering over the top of his laptop at the staring figure of Sherlock Holmes.
Over the past few days, John had noticed that Sherlock hadn’t quite seemed himself. He was still the same arrogant, rude, brilliant sociopath that he had been for as long as John - and everyone else, for that matter - had known him, but he had been acting strange when they were alone. It was almost as though he didn’t know what to do with John. As though his mere presence was something distractingly fascinating.
“Not at all” Sherlock said quietly, his voice slightly lower than usual, which sent a small round of shivers down John’s spine.
After a moments silence with both men staring at each other, John closed his laptop and set it on the table with a sigh.
“Right, Sherlock. What’s going on?”
He tried to sound as though he had some form of dominance over the man. In some occasions, he did. But when it came to a simple ‘tell me’, Sherlock was always in control.
The piercing gaze of Sherlock Holmes threatened to break his confidence as another small shiver ran down his spine, causing his mind to race. He didn’t look questioning, or cold, or belittling, or angry, or anything John ever remembered seeing before. He looked thoughtful, but it was a new kind of thoughtful. He stared back for what felt like a lifetime. Then he saw it, and he cast his eyes downward.
Affection. Warmth. Caring. No cold, distant deductions. Pure warmth. That completely human look that I’d almost forgotten existed. No coldness. No distance. Just love.
“Have I upset you?” Sherlock enquired after a few moments, his fingertips resting underneath his chin, his gaze hardened once more.
“Not at all”
Must have been my imagination. He noted to himself as he pushed himself up and out of the chair, grabbing his coat as he headed for the door.
“I’ll be back later.”
He hurried down the stairs and out the door before taking a left down Baker Street. He didn’t know where he was going. He was more concentrated on the deductions going on inside his mind. He wasn’t at all in Sherlock’s league when it came to observing and deducing, but he had learnt his fair share over the months. He was a confident man, despite almost always being shut down by ‘the great Sherlock Holmes’, but this time, he wasn’t so sure his mind was reaching the right conclusions.
The look was only there for a minute. But it was there, wasn’t it? He looked as though he actually cared. I always know he ‘cares’ in his own little way. But that look was so human. That look was so normal. It wasn’t him. Maybe I’m just hoping. Maybe I just want it.
John stopped dead in his tracks at that thought, surprising himself.
Why would I want it? I don’t have feelings for Sherlock Holmes. I-
His train of thought was cut off as a strong pair of hands wrapped around his neck. He felt a small prick in the right side of his neck in the millisecond it took for his brain to register the need to struggle, and almost instantly his movement weakened, his vision blurred, and he could hear only muffled sound before black nothingness.
---
John’s eyes slowly flickered open. At first he saw nothing, and a wave of panic engulfed him as he searched for the last thing he remembered. The gentle beeping of hospital equipment reached his ears and he sat up quickly, the blood rushing to his head. Almost immediately, he felt the previously unnoticed hand that had been holding his withdraw itself.
“John. You’re in hospital. It’s okay” The sound of Sherlock’s deep, calm voice filled his ears, and he sank back into the bed. “Do you remember what happened?”
He looked at Sherlock through the darkness of the room and noticed that the man’s face was filled with something he, at first, didn’t recognise.
“John?”
Concern. It was concern, and now it was filling his voice, too. John looked down at the hand which he was now sure Sherlock had been holding, and swallowed hard.
“I’m fine, Sherlock.”
His voice sounded scratchy and weak - something he wasn’t entirely happy with.
“What do you remember?”
John rubbed his eyes, sitting himself up as he looked at Sherlock again. The concern seemed to be replaced with his usual elegant, composed look again. He closed his eyes for a moment, the concerned face of Sherlock Holmes printed on the back of his eyelids. But slowly, it was changing into a loving, warm look.
“John.” Sherlock’s voice broke through his thoughts, causing him to re-open his eyes to look at the man in front of him. “Why are you smiling?”
His ears few hot with embarrassment, having not even realised the images in his mind had caused him to smile.
“Not sure” He said, clearing his throat. “I was grabbed from behind. That’s the last thing I remember.”
Sherlock gave a small nod of his head, leaning forward to rest his arms on John’s bed, seeming satisfied. It was odd to see the man so quiet and thoughtful, when usually, after something like this, he would be rattling off details which no one else would have even thought relevant. He would have names, motives, explanations. But there was nothing. Just silence.
“Are you alright?”
“Of course” Sherlock replied a little too quickly.
“How did you-“ John began to ask, but was cut off.
“I followed you. I texted Lestrade. Your captors are with him. That’s all you need to know.”
John tried to meet his eyes, but the usually perfectly composed, brilliant man before him had his face hidden from view. It was clear there was something Sherlock didn’t want him to know, but for the life of him he couldn’t work out what.
“Do you know what they wanted with me?” No answer. “Sherlock?” Still no answer. “Sherlock, for God sake, will you look at me?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
It was a question John was used to hearing, but this time the tone was completely different. Sherlock sounded uncertain, rather than irritated.
“What’s obvious?” John asked, a small flutter of panic in his chest.
“You’re the human one. You’re the one with the heart. You ARE the heart, John. But you’re not stupid, John. No. You’re far from stupid. I had assumed…” Sherlock trailed off, lifting his head to look at John.
The look was so full of emotion that John froze, panic rising in his throat. The last time he recalled seeing that look on Sherlock’s face was when he was wrapped in semtex by a pool, with Moriarty lurking in the shadows. And slowly, all those times that Sherlock had, in his own way, displayed his affection for him came flooding into his mind. Every meal they had together, every crime scene they went to, every time one or both of their lives had been in danger. Even when they fought, they fought because they cared.
Slowly, he reached out, taking Sherlock’s hand in his own, his stomach doing backflips all the while.
Without even realising it, I have fallen irrevocably in love with a mad, sociopathic genius, and it just might be that he has fallen in love with me.
---
Sherlock watched the small, sleeping figure of John in his armchair, seeming almost hypnotised by the rise and fall of his chest. He scanned every inch of the man that he could see through the dim light. Unsatisfied, he moved onto the floor directly in front of John’s armchair, studying every detail he could. The faint, barely existent stubble on his chin that said he was in need of a shave. The way his hair stood up at an odd angle where his head was pressed against the back of the chair that said he had snuggled against the comfort of it in his sleep. The small laugh lines around his eyes and mouth that were also accompanied by exhausted bags under his eyes that showed strongly how life with Sherlock wasn’t easy. The markings on his strong, experienced, careful hands that had both taken lives and saved lives. He took all of it in, and he wanted more. He wanted to see the scar left behind from being shot at in Afghanistan while he had probably attempted to spare somebody else’s life. He wanted to see the small amount of hair on his chest, and that small line of hair that lead down towards his pants. He wanted to find freckles, scars and other markings that told stories he didn’t even know existed. He wanted to study this man in his entirety, and then store away the mental map of John Watson’s body, ready to reference again whenever was necessary.
He leant forwards, his face now extremely close to John’s, his eyes resting on his lips - lips that so many women would have kissed before. A possessive flare shot up inside him, and the longer he stared at the John, the more possessive he felt.
John Watson is mine. He thought to himself with a burning passion he didn’t even know he was capable of. Stupid, small, predictable, caring, loving, polite, sympathetic John Watson is mine. Intelligent, fast, strong, brave, outrageous John Watson is mine. No one else’s. Mine.
Sherlock could hear the faint sound of John breathing and inched slightly closer, willing the man to open his eyes so he could peer into his soul. Exterior wasn’t enough. He wanted the inside of John Watson, too. He wanted to understand every thought and every feeling. He wanted to see the mechanics of his brain; how each thought filtered through each passageway and made its way out in seemingly meaningless actions or words. He wanted to be able to hear John’s thoughts and see his memories as clear as any picture put before him. But what he most wanted was to find that extra piece that John seemed to possess that made him so impossibly beautiful and interesting to him. He wanted to find what made him so attracted to this man, when he had never, in all his life, been attracted to anyone before. He wanted to find this extra thing that John had, and remove it, and study it until he could finally understand it. Then he never wanted to return it. Because, although he wouldn’t admit it out loud to anyone, that one thing was his one weakness.
Sherlock inched ever closer without even realising it, until he could feel Johns warm breath on his face. Their noses were almost touching when a hand shot out from beneath him, pushing him halfway across the room.
“Sh-Sherlock?” John questioned incredulously, his voice raspy from sleep.
Sherlock cleared his throat, straightening himself up as he flashed John a near-apologetic smile.
“Did I startle you?”
“What on Earth do you think you were doing?”
Sherlock frowned slightly, noticing the flustered sound in John’s voice. He hadn’t at all meant to upset him. Merely study him - work out what was so special about him.
“I was observing.” Sherlock explained, hoping that explanation would suffice.
“Can you not observe from across the room?”
John rubbed his face with an agitated sigh and stood up, straightening his knitted cardigan before looking at Sherlock, waiting for an answer.
“The best observations are made up close, John. How can you expect me to make serious deductions from across the room?”
John threw him an exasperated look before shaking his head, not even bothering to argue back. He stretched a little, which, Sherlock noticed, caused the bottom of his jumper to lift up, his shirt struggling to stay tucked into his pants. Then he made his way to his room, muttering something about personal space and sociopaths.
Sherlock sighed and flopped himself down on the sofa, staring at the already memorised ceiling with its faint red mark from a child’s sticky hand toy and its small, barely noticeable indent where a cork from a champagne bottle hit with a little too much force.
He was unable to deny that he had taken a particular extended interest in the young doctor, and it was quite obvious, though perhaps shockingly so, that he cared for John in a way that he had never cared for somebody before. He couldn’t help but think perhaps he had so often discarded the thought of caring, that he had missed the simple, plain fact that he did have a boring, human side to him.
Of course I care about Mycroft, and Mummy. He admitted to himself with a sigh, pressing his palms to his eyes. And Mrs Hudson - she looks after me. She means something.
In the darkness of his closed eyelids, the pressure of his palms forced spirals and swirls of colour to dance and whiz around as he thought. And as he thought, he felt both vulnerable and, for the first time in a long time, quite stupid. He had been so blind to the fact that he cared, and it took an ordinary man like John Watson to make him realise it.
Actually, it took a genius like Moriarty. He corrected himself, the simple thought sending a shiver down his spine. And because he spotted that weakness, he can use it against me.
“Sherlock?”
The sound of John’s voice actually made him jump. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had completely missed the sound of John’s steps down the stairs and across the room.
“Sherlock, come on. Talk to me. Even an idiot can tell that you’re not completely yourself. You show up at crime scenes, you hear the facts, you observe, you give your deductions, and you leave again. You don’t gloat, you don’t make snide remarks about who’s sleeping with who or how stupid everyone in the department is. I don’t even know why I’m there with you most of the time, because you barely look at me, let alone talk to me. Then we come home, we drink tea, we eat take out, we watch crap TV and I go to bed while you work on experiments. You don’t shout the answers at the TV five minutes into the programme, and you don’t blow things up when I’m trying to listen to important parts of the show, and you don’t decide to run off in the middle of the night without a words notice. So tell me, Sherlock. What’s happened?”
Sherlock looked momentarily shocked, unable to speak. He drank in every word John spoke as though it were poison, filling him up slowly, weakening him. If it were that blatantly obvious to John, then it was no wonder it was so obvious to Moriarty. He was sure John had come to the conclusion at the hospital that he cared about him. He was sure John had worked out exactly how much he meant to him. So why wasn’t he applying that now?
“You almost died because of me, John. Twice. And I could have added a third the other night, had I not followed you. Because of me. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see it’s all because of me?”
John looked completely thrown off guard, though Sherlock couldn’t for a minute understand why. Surely this wasn’t news to him.
“What? No. Sherlock, no. None of that is your fault.” He said quietly, moving Sherlock’s legs so he could sit down. “Why would you think that?”
Sherlock looked at John before resting the tips of his fingers under his chin, breathing a sigh through his nose. He could almost hear the added ‘why would you care?’ on the end of that sentence.
“I don’t think, I know. Moriarty is after you, and that wouldn’t be the case if it weren’t for me. You know it and I know it. You were warned by everyone. You should have listened.”
“It was my choice, Sherlock.” The calmness in John’s voice made Sherlock want to shout. “I could have left. Any time, I could choose to leave. But I don’t want to. How could I want anything different? Where’s the fun in waking up, going to work, coming home, watching TV, eating dinner, going to bed, then repeating the process?”
“Are you really as stupid as you sound?” Sherlock snapped without meaning to, wishing that for once John would stop being nice and stop being brave, and actually save himself first. “You will always have a target on your chest when you’re around me. You’re a walking, living, breathing target. You will never be safe around me. Do you understand that? Or are you just too stupid to see the facts that are clearly lain down before your eyes with almost too much evidence for anyone around you to bare?”
He refused to look at John now, angry with himself for letting emotions get the better of him.
Emotions - what good are they anyway? I can so easily cast them aside when it comes to anyone and anything - except John. Why is he so different?
“John, just-“
He was cut off by the force of soft, warm lips on his own. Involuntarily, he shifted his position to a more comfortable one, an arm snaking its way around John’s body to pull him closer. It seemed strange to him that John could read what he wanted before he even knew it, but suddenly it was so clear. He didn’t just care about John Watson. He loved John Watson.
---
John listened to Sherlock as he spoke, mildly surprised at the emotion in his voice and the depth of his words. He wasn’t just stating facts anymore. He was worried, and John could see that now. Since that night at the hospital when he had realised he had fallen for his flatmate, he had hoped to see the feeling reciprocated. He had had no such luck, and put it down to a misconception on his behalf. If he didn’t find it so impossible to believe that a man like Sherlock Holmes could ever love someone as simple as himself, he would have put it down to the fact that Sherlock merely disregarded and discarded emotion. But now it was clear that he had been right to assume Sherlock had feelings for him, even if he didn’t quite know what those feelings were.
God, shut up. He thought to himself and pressed his lips firmly against Sherlock’s, smiling into the kiss as he went.
The feel of Sherlock’s arm wrapping around him, pulling him closer, was signal enough that this was what he wanted, too. He could tell by the clumsiness of the detective’s actions that he was extremely inexperienced, but that didn’t matter at all. He slowly parted his lips, flicking his tongue across Sherlock’s invitingly. As he followed suit, John sucked gently on his lower lip, nibbling lightly. He held back, teaching Sherlock along the way, despite the fact that he wanted to dive full force into the kiss. He felt the low, happy rumble in Sherlock’s chest as he gently slid his tongue into his mouth. He felt Sherlock’s tongue touch his almost questioningly. He ran his fingers into the detective’s dark mass of curls as he explored his mouth, surprised at how quickly the kiss became more even, rather than one sided.
Slowly, their lips broke apart, and John placed small kisses along Sherlock’s jaw line and down his neck, before resting his head on his shoulder, breathing a satisfied sigh.
“I’m not leaving. Ever.” John whispered, closing his eyes again.
He could feel the unsteady, shaky rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest, and for a minute he thought the man was crying. Opening his eyes, he sat up a little more. He was relieved, though not surprised, to find that Sherlock was only lost in thought. He reached up gently, stroking his face with the back of his hand, a gentle smile on his face.
“Why did you do that?” Sherlock suddenly asked, his tone catching John by surprise.
He sounded almost angry - definitely not what John had expected, considering how much Sherlock seemed to enjoy the kiss.
“Because I wanted to. To shut you up. Because you wanted to.”
“Oh, and you know that, do you? You can suddenly read me, can you?”
“Sherlock… If you had responded badly to the kiss, I would have stopped…” John replied, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice as it slowly formed in his stomach. He swallowed, sitting up properly now, his expression as blank as he could manage.
Sherlock looked away without saying anything, and John stood up, not sure what else to do.
“I’ve upset you.” Sherlock said quietly, his usual distanced tone back in place.
“Yes. Well done. Good deduction.” John replied dryly.
He made a move towards the kitchen, but was stopped by a firm grip on his wrist. He looked down, tracing his eyes along the long, pale fingers that gripped his own slightly tanned skin, across the hand, up the arm, all the way to Sherlock’s face, and it was that same caring look he had caught over the past few days. And then he realised how wrong he had been.
That look isn’t new. That look has been there all along. After I shot the cab driver, when I went on a date with Sarah, at the pool, in the car park, on the way home when he held my hand. I hadn’t imagined it the other day, I didn’t imagine it in the hospital, and I most certainly am not imagining it now. How could I have missed it?
“It’s okay.” He said quietly, noticing the look on Sherlock’s face growing desperate.
He turned his hand over, allowing Sherlock’s to slide into his own. Giving it a reassuring squeeze, he sat back down, still keeping hold of Sherlock’s hand. He knew that was Sherlock’s way of apologising, and he had never really expected more.
“Sherlock, please, just listen to me. I will work with you and live with you and care for you until the day I die. Do you understand that? Because you’re the closest thing to a friend that I have. It may be an unconventional friendship, but I don’t care. Why would I want anything close to normal? Normal means I have a psychosomatic limp and my left hand shakes uncontrollably. Normal means I don’t have you, or your excitement. I’m in just as much danger without you as I am with you. Without you, I’m a danger to myself. Can’t you see that? Surely you must have deduced that, along with everything else.”
A smile slowly grew on Sherlock’s face, sending a wave of relief through John’s body. It hadn’t been until that night at the hospital that he had realised exactly how much Sherlock meant to him. It was hard not to be swept in by his obvious good looks and his apparent charm. It was hard to not be amazed by his intelligence and his ability to observe and deduce. But, for everyone else, it was very easy to be turned off by his arrogance, rudeness, and general disregard for the rules, whether social or otherwise. It was very easy for people to find his inability to care or relate to emotions very off-putting. It was extremely easy for even the most patient of people to be enraged by his laziness, boredom, mess and noise at all hours of the day and night. But John Watson could see past these things, despite finding them irritating and, truth be told, disappointing at times. John could tolerate the man that no one else could. But until quite recently, that was all he had seen it as - tolerating.
“You’re a remarkable man, Sherlock. Blood remarkable. I don’t know how I can stand you most of the time, but somehow you’ve made me love you.” He smiled nervously, slightly startled by his own words.
Sherlock gave John’s hand a small squeeze before jumping up, a wide grin on his face.
“Let’s grab some dinner. There’s a new restaurant opened on the other side of London. It should be good.”
John nodded, standing up to join Sherlock, the obvious change of topic not at all a surprise to him. After all, emotions weren’t exactly Sherlock’s specialty, and he was sure there had been enough of them in one evening to last Sherlock a life time. He grabbed his jacket as they headed out the door and followed Sherlock down the stairs, smiling to himself all the while. He was unable to believe that the remarkable man he had once thought was not capable of an inch of emotion could ever love anyone, let alone him. Yet the facts were there, and they all lead to the one inevitable answer that left John grinning like a fool for the rest of the night.
---
Sherlock barely touched the food in front of him, and was extremely grateful for the fact that he usually didn’t eat much anyway, so it wasn’t something to catch John’s attention. He kept up the small talk and discussed criminals and how exceedingly dull they were. Anything to stop John from mentioning the kiss, feelings, the word ‘love’, and them, whatever they were now. He was more than relieved when he received a text from Lestrade.
Scotland Yard. Come now. Help needed.
GL
“Come along, John” Sherlock said quickly, jumping up from his seat, a gleam in his eye.
Ignoring John’s grumbled protesting, he headed for the door, knowing John was following as always. He hailed a taxi and slid across for John.
“Scotland Yard.” He said to the cabbie before casting his eyes out the window.
He could feel John’s eyes on him, but he ignored them. Though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, he was scared. He had never, in his whole life, ever had someone who wasn’t family tell him that they loved him. If he had, then he hadn’t taken any notice. But it wasn’t just that John had said it. It was also that he had been thinking it. John loved him, but the more remarkable thing was that he loved John.
He was snapped out of his thoughts when the cab came to a stop at Scotland Yard. Flashing a grin in John’s direction, he got out, hoping the case would be good.
“Right, Sherlock. Good of you to come. You too, John.” Lestrade greeted them, carefully avoiding making eye contact with John.
Something was wrong, and it wasn’t the usual type of wrong. Lestrade carried an air of gloom about him when there was a particularly terrible case, and that air of gloom always sent a surge of excitement through Sherlock’s veins. However, this was different, and the difference made Sherlock’s blood run cold. He didn’t speak as he and John followed Lestrade. If was obvious that whatever was wrong had something to do with John, and it was also obvious that Lestrade wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. He also seemed to wish he hadn’t called them there in the first place, which he hoped was only because John was there, and whatever had happened was obviously connected to John in some way, and therefore he should not be helping with the investigation. There was a nagging feeling in the back of Sherlock’s mind, however, that wasn’t completely certain that was all.
Worry. He identified, throwing a sideways glance at John as they silently followed Lestrade to the interrogation room. Stupid loveable John bloody Watson induced worry. Damn it, John. How did you do this to me?
As they reached the door to interrogation room 1, Lestrade stopped them, turning around with an almost guilty expression.
“John, I’m going to have to ask you to stay here.” He said quietly, clearly wishing he didn’t have to say the words.
Another possessive flare shot up inside Sherlock as he realised that Lestrade cared about John, too. John was his to care about, and no one else’s. John was his responsibility and his friend and his heart.
“What? But…” Sherlock heard John protest, his mind slowly catching up.
“Where I go, John goes.” He practically growled, narrowing his eyes slightly.
“Sherlock, I can’t. It’s his -“
“I know, Harry is in there. All the more reason for John to be, too.”
John’s mouth dropped at that, and he threw a desperate look in Lestrade’s direction. A small knot formed in Sherlock’s stomach, and his expression relaxed as he cast his eyes away from both men. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly that he was feeling now, but he wished he hadn’t have said anything. The anxious, worried look on John’s face almost hurt him physically.
Damn you, John Watson. He thought to himself before pushing past Lestrade into the interrogation room.
His stomach dropped as he saw the mess of a person sitting down, waiting. Her not-quite-blonde hair sat messily on top of her head, and her tear-stained face looked old and tired, despite the fact that she was not at all old. There was a trail of dried blood from her eyebrow, and another from her nose. The terrible feeling in his stomach wasn’t because his heart went out to her at all; no, she was a stranger, and he didn’t care for her at all. The growing pain creeping from his stomach up his chest was because she so clearly resembled John, and the thought of John sitting before him like this physically hurt him. He couldn’t even explain why. It was like seeing John wrapped in semtex again.
“Right” came Lestrade’s voice from behind him, jolting him from the frankly terrible images consuming his mind. “Miss Watson, you understand why you’ve been brought in?”
From there on, the conversation between a very upset Harry, and a very grave looking Lestrade turned into a haze. She was being accused of being part of a murder in the car park of a shopping center. The police had shown up to find her leaning against the wall, barely able to support herself, while two others ran off, and the dead body lay in front of her. It must be blatantly obvious that Harry was innocent if Sherlock could tell when he was barely paying attention. She had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. If it wasn’t clear from the way she spoke and held herself - or tried to hold herself, Sherlock thought absently - then it was definitely obvious from the fact that the victim was right handed, but Harry had taken a left handed punch to the head, meaning the victim hadn’t attacked her. She also had to have had a bag of shopping with her, because her right hand still had marks that the thick plastic bags had left behind. Once the interview was over, he told Lestrade so quickly, and left, leaving John behind to take care of his sister.
God, what’s wrong with you? He thought to himself as he left Scotland Yard and climbed into the back of a cab.
The whole ride home, Sherlock’s mind was filled with all sorts of images of John, both good and bad. He needed to get rid of them. He didn’t understand them, and he hated not understanding. They were irrelevant, and based on nothing but fears and past events that were over and done with. Nothing made sense, and his head felt like it was spinning. Quickly, he paid the driver before dashing inside and up the stairs for his nicotine patches. A small frustrated growl escaped his lips upon realising he had ran out, and he suddenly longed for something stronger. Something to truly take the edge off and help him concentrate on what was important.
John is important. His mind hissed at him as he tore the mirror off his wall, scraping at the wallpaper until he could reach the hidden syringe behind.
---
The last time John had seen Harry cry was when Clara had first left her. Though, he had only seen her once before this since then. Despite their rocky relationship, she was still his sister, and he would still do his best to help her.
“I can stay… If you want” He offered quietly once they reached her house.
She seemed okay now, but John knew she would head straight for the alcohol. The thought made him cringe, but he knew it was completely out of his control. There was also a nagging in the back of his mind that told him Sherlock wasn’t okay. Something had seemed off, but he just couldn’t place it.
“Nah. You go. Sherlock probably needs you to text someone for him, or run around London after the real killer.” Her tone was underlined with annoyance, but she smiled weakly anyway. “John, really. The things you do for him. Are you sure you two aren’t at least shagging?”
John felt his face redden slightly and he adverted his eyes, scratching the back of his neck idly.
Harry’s face lit up with its usual glow, a smirk sliding its way onto her face.
“Knew it. Must be a damn good shag, though, for you to keep chasing after him.”
“No. No, Harry. It’s not like that. Really, it’s not. We’re just -“ he paused. What were they? Friends? Before the kiss and the conversation attached, John hadn’t known. Now things seemed even more complicated between them than they had before. “We’re just friends, Harry.”
“Sure, sure.” She said, sounding much more like herself as she waved her hand dismissively. “Go on. You want to be with him. I’m fine.”
John smiled appreciatively, hugging her once before jumping back into the taxi.
---
John raced up the stairs to the apartment, taking them two at a time. There was a growing feeling of unease forming in his stomach, and he knew it was because of Sherlock. He flung the door open, eyeing the empty room. Everything seemed as it should, yet everything also seemed wrong. He couldn’t quit work out why he felt that something was wrong. It was just an instinct that came with spending an awful lot of time with someone - you just knew.
“Sherlock?” He called, closing the door behind him with an almost silent click.
There was no reply, but John knew he was here. He slowly made his way across to Sherlock’s bedroom, hesitating at the door before knocking. When he got no answer, he slowly opened the door, feeling almost like a child sneaking around places they shouldn’t be.
“Sherlock, no.” John said, his panic clear in his voice as he rushed to Sherlock’s side, dodging boxes and piles of books to grab the syringe from his hand.
Sherlock’s eyes were red and his body was shaking, but John couldn’t decide if that was from the drugs, or of the always controlled detective had been crying. It almost looked like the latter, but he wouldn’t bet on it.
“How do you do it?” Sherlock muttered, allowing his head to slam back against the wall just a little too hard.
“Do what?” He replied, sitting down next to Sherlock.
He took his shaking hand, lacing their fingers together before giving a small squeeze. John didn’t know what was wrong, and it was slightly unnerving seeing someone who was always so calm, cold and controlled suddenly so distressed, but he would do his best to help.
“Care. How do you deal with the pain that comes with caring for someone, John? Because that’s the only way I can define it. Pain. But there’s no wound. How can I feel pain when there’s no injury?”
John attempted a reassuring smile, but the desperate, confused, hurt look on Sherlock’s face caused it to falter.
“I don’t understand emotions much myself, Sherlock. I don’t think anyone does.” He explained quietly, rubbing his thumb gently over the back of Sherlock’s hand. “They just happen. But what brought this on? What’s happened?”
John felt Sherlock’s grip tighten, as though he was scared John was going to slip away. He sighed and placed his other hand on top of Sherlock’s, gripping him tightly in both hands, a small reminder that he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Your sister looks like you. I’ve never seen you cry. I don’t ever want to see you cry. I know if you did, I would most likely be the cause. I’m the cause for all your pain, and I don’t want to be that.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat, both shocked and touched by the fact that Sherlock was actually expressing real emotions.
“Sherlock… I’m fine. Right now, I’m fine. And Harry’s fine, too. It’s okay. Really, it is.”
“John. I can’t lose you. What if he kills you?”
John could feel his own heart hammering in his chest. He knew exactly who Sherlock meant, and right then, he felt so much hatred towards Moriarty for the mess he had made of so many people’s lives.
“We’ll be fine. Both of us. Because we’ve got each other” He knew it sounded cliché, and he wasn’t entirely sure he believed it, but just saying it made him feel better.
Sherlock smiled faintly, and for a minute John thought he was going to mock him, but instead he rested his head against John’s shoulder.
“How much did you take?” John whispered, the doctor side of him needing to know.
“None. You stopped me.” Sherlock whispered back.
A warm feeling formed in John’s stomach and moved up into his chest, filling him with a feeling he couldn’t quite explain. He figured this meant that Sherlock had been crying, or close to it, and that small idea completely baffled him.
“Come on” he said quietly, pulling both himself and the consulting detective off the ground. “It’s been a long day”
He suddenly felt extremely tired and emotionally drained, yet he had barely done anything that day. He lead Sherlock to his bead and made to leave, but Sherlock grabbed him by the wrist.
“Stay.” He said quietly, looking away, as though it didn’t really matter.
John smiled slightly, knowing it definitely meant more than he was letting on, and kicked his shoes off before sitting down next to Sherlock. There was an awkward pause in which neither said or did anything, then slowly Sherlock removed his jacket, shirt and shoes and lay down. John smiled slightly and removed his jumper before laying down next to Sherlock. The instant he did, Sherlock curled into him, his long limbs wrapping around him almost protectively. He smiled and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, stroking his hair absently with one hand. It felt nice. Different, but nice.
“John.” Sherlock said quietly after a few minutes of silence, breaking through John’s sleepy, aimless thoughts
“Mmm?”
“Are we okay?”
The uncertainty in Sherlock’s voice threw John off guard a little, but he smiled, nuzzling his head into Sherlock’s hair.
“Of course we are.”
Sherlock snuggled in closer to him, which made him feel both extremely safe and extremely sleepy, and before he knew it, he was falling asleep with only the feel of Sherlock so close to him on his mind.
---
Sherlock woke in the morning, and nuzzled his head in against John’s neck to block the stream of sunlight coming in through the window. He breathed in the smell of washing powder, aftershave, and a smell that is entirely indescribable - a smell that is entirely John. It sounded cliché in his mind, but for the first time that he could remember, he didn’t care. For the first time that he could remember, cliché was perfectly okay with him.
He smiled; a real smile, a true smile, a smile that he reserved only for those he truly cared about. That smile was now John’s. He could feel John’s chest rising and falling with his gentle, calm breathing, and he ran his fingers along the smooth material of his shirt. For once, he wasn’t thinking about the blood running through John’s veins, pumping from his heart in miniscule bursts of life. He wasn’t thinking about the thoughts running through John’s mind or the images he saw behind his eyelids as he slept. He wasn’t thinking about opening John up and reading him like a map, or memorising him like he had memorised London. He wasn’t thinking about cold hard facts, or details, or deductions. He had the rest of their life for that. Instead, he was thinking about the warmth seeping from John’s body, and the smell of John’s hair, and the feel of John’s skin, and the way John sounded when he laughed, and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and that John was completely in love with him, and he was completely in love with John.
I will protect you with my life. Sherlock thought to himself as he slowly drifted back into sleep. And I will always love you.
He wasn’t scared anymore, because he knew that love would only change him in small ways. His mind would still be brilliant, and work would still be there, as important as ever, and John was still there with him, every step of the way.