Fic: Home
Home
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sherlock/John (slash)
Warning: None
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or John. I'm just borrowing them.
Summary: The aftermath of The Great Game. All they want to do is just get home. Slightly fluffy.
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It feels like hours before they get home.
First, there’s a trip to the hospital to check them over, despite protestations from both Sherlock and John. Sherlock, because he can’t stand hospitals. John, because he’s a doctor and he doesn’t like being forced into treatment he doesn’t think he needs. Surely, he would have noticed if he or Sherlock were sporting a major injury? It was a miracle they weren’t, after an explosion that destructive, but John knows even Sherlock wouldn’t be able to lie about concussion or a broken leg or whatever injury the paramedics think they might have.
And as soon as the doctors have confirmed John’s thoughts, Lestrade and his team are desperate to know, to hear just what happened at the pool. They’ve been waiting like barely-restrained dogs throughout the brief visit to the hospital and now their patience is gone and they are unleashed. Lestrade is angry, he’s shouting at Sherlock for agreeing to meet a serial killer by himself (again!). And Donovan just stands there smirking, until she hears the bit about Sherlock grabbing John, hurling them both into the pool - most likely saving both their lives - and then she’s a bit uncomfortable because she didn’t think Sherlock would ever care enough about another human being.
Finally, it becomes too much and it’s John - quiet, mild-mannered John (or so they seem to think) - who shouts at everybody to shut up and get out. They all stare at him in bewilderment - except Sherlock, who’s just smiling broadly - and then they reluctantly agree to leave, with the proviso that Sherlock and John come to Scotland Yard tomorrow. John agrees with a curt nod and the room is finally silent, just he and Sherlock sat opposite each other on treatment tables. They are both battered and bruised and Sherlock had to have a few stitches on his jaw, but they’re both smiling.
“Home?” Sherlock asks.
“God, yes.”
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So now they’re finally home and they’re standing around in the living room, neither of them really knowing what to do because they can’t sleep (too much adrenalin) and they don’t know what to say (too much awkwardness). John finally gives in to that age-old cover and offers to make tea, but before he even reaches the kitchen, Sherlock’s voice halts him.
“You did a… a good thing.”
John doesn’t point out that they’ve already been through this; instead he thinks of Sherlock tackling him into the pool.
“You too.”
There is silence once more but this time they’re just staring at each other and neither of them can look away because this, this, is new. Sherlock’s never known anyone (not even his own brother) who would risk his life to save Sherlock. And John’s in awe because it’s not even the fact that Sherlock saved his life, it’s the knowledge that Sherlock (the man with no heart) actually cares about someone. Cares about John. And that sets them both a little on edge.
So they keep staring at each other and John knows this isn’t normal and he’s sure even Sherlock must know this isn’t normal but neither of them can tear themselves away. It’s hit them now, what they’ve been through, and there’s an edge in both of their expressions. Because they both could have been dead right now.
Maybe that’s why the adrenalin is surging and their hearts are thumping and suddenly, all they can think about is - It’s Sherlock (impatient, impulsive Sherlock) who moves first, crossing the distance between them in two long strides, and then his mouth is descending on John’s and John is already leaning up to meet him.
That first kiss is hard and hungry and they can’t seem to hold back, either of them. John’s hands are twisted in Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock has his hands locked on John’s hips and they hit the doorframe but neither of them really notices, except for the fact that it hampers John’s backwards movement and pushes them together.
It is John (the voice of reason, apparently) who pulls away first and he gives Sherlock an absolutely petrified look that seems to perfectly convey ‘Holy shit, I just kissed another man’. Not to mention just how much he had enjoyed it, judging by the flush in his cheeks and the way he swallows hard when Sherlock stays exactly where he is, fingertips digging into John’s hips. John licks his lips a few times and it’s obvious that he’s trying to think of something, anything, to say - but he’s at a loss.
Sherlock, always at least two steps ahead in any given situation, is already considering just how much John might freak out if he suggested taking this to a bedroom. Sherlock’s already bypassed shock and bewilderment, skipped straight past the realisation that this has been building for days now, and is well on the way to acceptance - and seduction. He doesn’t want to think about how long it’s been since anyone made him feel like this, or just what this might do to him, to John.
Sherlock is pretty much ready to make his move (and John hasn’t moved away, so Sherlock doesn’t see there being much objection) when John beats him to it, drawing him in close again and kissing him. And this second kiss is the complete opposite of the first: it’s slow, tender and John doesn’t know why, but this affects him more. Sherlock loosens his tight grip on John’s hips and raises one hand to John’s jaw, tracing his fingers over the small bruise at the junction with his neck, leaving a light touch at John’s pulse point.
The gentle caresses and the slow, soft tangle of their mouths become even slower as the adrenalin that was pumping through their bodies finally begins to dissipate. Sherlock senses it first, and then he feels John’s ever-so-slight waver as he fights to stay upright. Exhaustion is taking over now and even Sherlock knows he won’t be able to resist, no matter how interesting things might now be getting.
John soon recognises the signs of exhaustion in both of them and he pulls away, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock’s fingers drift over his hair, twine in the hairs at the back of his neck - but even Sherlock’s movements are considerably slower now.
“Bed?” Sherlock murmurs, his breath cool against John’s skin.
John just nods and they separate reluctantly. John looks up at his… friend? ... and can’t help but smile at the sight of Sherlock’s eyelids drooping, unable to fight the draw of sleep. Not after everything they’ve been through. And suddenly John doesn’t like the idea of going to his lonely bed. So, John reaches out and twines his fingers in Sherlock’s and Sherlock gives him a look, and nods.
They climb the stairs to John’s bedroom and John lets out a sigh at the sight of his bed: it’s one of the best things he’s seen all day. He considers changing out of his clothes for a split second, but he’s only wearing a T-shirt and jeans after his trip to the hospital and he realises Sherlock’s lost his jacket at some point, so he decides against it. He releases Sherlock’s hand and kicks off his shoes, before moving to the bed and dropping onto it with a low groan. He hears two low thuds as Sherlock removes his shoes and then the bed dips as Sherlock joins him. He turns to face Sherlock and it does something indescribable to his chest - and other parts of his anatomy - to see Sherlock curled up on his bed, eyes already drifting closed.
“John,” Sherlock mumbles sleepily and he reaches out blindly, until his hand comes to rest on John’s arm. He gives a little satisfied sigh and John lays his hand over Sherlock’s as his own eyes drift shut. And they’re home. And, for now, they’re safe.
THE END
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