Disguise, part 5/6
:: previous part ::
The next day John has to leave. Baker Street has become stifling, too hot for him to breathe. He can't focus on anything.
It's a Saturday. John can tell by the pedestrian traffic on the pavement as he walks: less hurried, people looking at their surroundings, a couple of women even smile at him. Walking has always been good for him, helps him clear his mind.
And, bloody hell, is John's mind in need of a bit of clearing.
John walks mindlessly, turning corners at random, letting himself be guided by something outside of himself. His mind is (still) on overdrive: replaying the events of the previous night in vivid detail. The feel of Sherlock's buttocks under his hands, their mouths crushed together, Sherlock's tongue making him more and more incoherent.
And what had it been for? What bloody purpose had it served, other than to reinforce to Sherlock that no matter what, no matter everything that happens, John will always be helpless against his attraction to Sherlock.
It's been like that since the beginning. John, hauling himself all the way across London to look at a flat with someone he's barely met, following him blindly into the middle of a crime scene (and instinctively complimenting every seventh sentence out of his mouth), suffering willingly through awkward dinner conversations, following him out into a reckless chase through alleys and over rooftops... and that was just their first night.
John sighs as he walks. It's as though, somehow, he's ceased to be his own individual life form and has instead become another part, an extension of Sherlock. Drawn to him, in need of him. Sherlock has become vital to his existence, to his very breath.
Oh, Christ. John is done for.
He passes an open air café, hears snatches of a deliberately loud teenaged girl conversation:
"Oh my god, I just love him. It's like I can't even stop thinking about him long enough to even do my homework."
"Oh, Anne. I think it means you're in love."
John shudders at that, walks another block and leans against an abandoned storefront. It's so clear now. He has got to get out of his head. John's somehow morphed into a teenaged girl, and there is nothing that's not wrong about that.
He needs a distraction. And now.
~*~
The coffee shop hums busily on Saturday afternoon. There are dozens of students frowning at laptops, ostensibly working (though John can see at least three browsing Facebook and at least one more has some other picture journaling site open and is scrolling avidly), friends obviously meeting for coffee and a chat, and what looks like at least one man clearly here to pick someone up. He keeps leering at any woman under the age of 35 that walks in and is garnering quite a few strange looks.
John walks to the counter and smiles at the young girl at the register, Bette. He remembers her as working several times alongside Kate, so there's no chance this is actually Sherlock in disguise. Thank heavens for small favours. Bette has just finished her first year at Uni, and is still pretty naïve about the world of adults.
She lives nearby, has been a patient of John's at the surgery once or twice; the second time saw her nearly sobbing in his office about the quantity of work and the fact that she was horrendously behind, and worried she was going to get kicked out.
"Doctor Watson," she smiles. "What can I get for you?"
"Earl Grey," he says. "Thanks, Bette." He reaches for his wallet, but she waves him off.
"My treat," she says. "You did so much for me: listened to me, didn't act all high-handed and pedantic about everything. I took your advice, you know. Told my flat-mates what I needed, shut off the computer, set a timer when I needed it, and got everything finished in time."
John beams at her. "That's fantastic. I'm happy for you."
She grins back, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. "The others here, they think you're great, too. Alicia definitely fancies you."
John's face heats. He's certain his cheeks are red. "Well, that's - flattering. And believe me, I know which coffee shop is my favourite. I guess I'll have to keep coming back."
"You would anyway, we make the best coffee and tea in London."
"Can't argue with that."
Bette hands him the hot cup, the smile fully reaching her eyes. "Come back soon."
"I will. Take care of yourself, Bette."
"Always, Doctor Watson."
~*~
John's wandering brings him to a park. The weather is pleasant; the rain seems to have brought everything to a manageable temperature and the sun is warm overhead.
He sits down in one of the benches, watching the flurry of activity as various men arrive, dressed in a couple of different colours. They must be here for a match of some sort. John shifts on the bench. This might be just what he needs: a bit of sport to distract him from his rampant introspection.
Some of the men start warming up, tossing the rugby ball sideways between them, doing quick sets of knee lifts, jogging from one end of the pitch to the other. If John were smart, he'd get himself together and find a team or a pick up game a few times a week. Anything to keep him moving more often.
Though, John certainly gets plenty of activity chasing after Sherlock.
Which is really not the train of thought he needs to continue right now. He shakes his head, looks around to compose himself. Walking up the path is a man with two children, one looking about ten years old, and the other must be barely three. They get to the side of the pitch and the man drops his bag, unzipping and pulling out a dark green jersey.
The three year old bursts into tears. John can't make out what they're saying (he's not trying to eavesdrop, just curious), but it's clear the youth wants him to stay and play. He keeps pointing over to the climbing structure and frowning at the men jogging around the pitch.
The man (is he the father?) speaks low, quietly. His face is open, fond, full of love as he speaks, gesturing to the ten year old, then to the playground and pointing to his watch. The three year old nods with large, wet eyes, his lips screwed up in the way only young children can manage.
The ten year old says something in an overly bright voice and reaches for the three year old's hand, obviously planning to lead him toward the playground. The father (he must be the father; the love on his face is apparent) claps the ten year old on the shoulder, watches them go, the dark jersey hanging from his hands, forgotten for the moment. His face is raw with emotion, drenched in pride, in affection. He stares for a long moment, obviously lost in thought.
Then one of the other players tosses the rugby ball at him; it hits his calf and bounces to the ground. He looks up, and shakes his head. He pulls his tee shirt over his head, then pulls on his jersey and calls out something obscene as he jogs out to the pitch. It's clear he's talking shit to some of the others already there. It's such a marked change from his behaviour of just the previous moment that John is intrigued.
The match kicks off not long after that, exciting from the start. It's clear there's a healthy rivalry between these two teams: the chatter during the match is non-stop, loud, and full of inventive curses. The teams are well matched, and some of the players have clearly been playing for a long time. John watches some of the well-executed plays, fluid as though they were choreographed, and wishes (again) that he could be out there: sweat, laughter, the pleasant sting of hard work filling his thighs, lungs burning from exertion.
A shout breaks his reverie. The man he'd been watching before (the back of his jersey says "McAllister") is shouting at another player, his face screwed up in anger. McAllister steps forward, curses falling from his lips, and the other player mutters something under his breath.
Two other players come stand between them, pulling the two away from each other and speaking to them quietly. It's a few minutes before the match gets underway again.
After a few more plays, McAllister is upset again by the same player. John sees it this time, the player on the opposing team knocking him down while he's attempting to score a try. This time McAllister launches himself at the other man, yelling obscenities and lashing out with his fists. The two are wrapped around each other in a violent dance. Their fists connect, faces screwed up in rage.
It's so incongruous to the gentle, loving behaviour John had witnessed in McAllister just a quarter hour before. It's fascinating; he could be watching two different men.
Oh.
John's vision blurs a little, focuses on Sherlock as Brad in 1992, emotionally open, his words matching his touch, to Sherlock as Brad touching John just last night, the hunger in his eyes so obvious. He flashes quickly between each of the disguises John caught Sherlock in, each of them distinctly different, markedly dissimilar to Sherlock himself.
John feels a little ridiculous. How had he not seen it before? He'd figured out that Sherlock was attracted to him (why else would every single disguise of his flirt with John?), but it had never occurred to him to think about why Sherlock would have used the disguises in the first place.
Costumes, disguises... a chance to pretend, to imagine.
A disguise allows someone be a different person entirely, lets them try on a new personality. In the same way putting on that rugby jersey let McAllister change from a loving, concerned father into a ruthless player, capable of violence and callous anger, each disguise let Sherlock tap into a different character, a different personality.
The disguises let him... hide.
Last night, John hadn't let him do that. Immediately, John had pushed the Brad personality out of his mind, focusing instead on Sherlock: Sherlock's body against his, Sherlock's fingers mapping his skin, Sherlock's mouth against his throat. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.
To John's credit, last night he hadn't been actively ignoring any potential need Sherlock might have had to hide. John had honestly thought that it was Sherlock's way of bridging that gap between them, making up for the awful end in 1992, and the years of buried longing.
But, no. No, Sherlock had dressed as Brad last night because... well, because why, exactly? Because he wanted to talk to John? Because he was aroused? Because of some other, complicated train of thought that John would never be able to follow?
What made him stop? John thinks back, lets his mind (selfishly) linger on the touches between them, the bruising feel of Sherlock's lips on his, before walking through as much as he can remember.
No... it wasn't until John had said something -- said Sherlock's name -- that everything stopped.
Well, and Sherlock is different than any other person John has ever known. When has Sherlock ever fallen into a predictable behavioural pattern?
So, instead of letting him hide, maybe the disguises let him... act on what he really wants?
The green of the park comes into stark relief around him and John blinks rapidly, looking around. He has no idea what parts of this convoluted train of thought might actually be useful, but he feels a little more settled, at least.
One thing is painfully clear: John needs to talk to Sherlock.
~*~
When John walks into their flat, Sherlock is sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by what appears to be an entire costume shop upended on the floor in a ludicrous mess. The coffee table has been pushed back, the chairs are up against the shelves. John's never before realised how large their sitting room is, and he grins to himself. Always too full of clutter.
He stands in the doorway for a moment, watching Sherlock. He sits with his legs crossed as a child might, but he's very still. His back is mostly to John, but John imagines his eyes are flicking quickly across the items scattered around him, trying to find some sort of pattern.
John clears his throat.
"Yes, John, I know you're there. I heard you come in."
"It's often considered polite to offer a greeting when someone returns home."
"So might your similar lack of greeting also be construed as something other than polite?"
John laughs. "Yeah, alright then. Touché."
There's a (thin) path through the sitting room to the kitchen, which John navigates carefully. He's loath to disturb anything until he knows why Sherlock has taken over the floor.
"Tea then?"
"Your third cup today, John?"
"How did-- you know what... never mind. Yes, I'm indulging in my third cup today. Would you like one or not?"
"Please."
As John putters around the kitchen, flicking the kettle on and pulling out the box of tea bags, he tries to go over why Sherlock might be doing this. In all their months together as flatmates, John has never seen Sherlock getting into a disguise, has only been a party to the disguises once Sherlock has them on. But, he must have all sorts of pieces somewhere here at Baker Street: wigs, make up, clothing, because so often their encounters happened right in this area, and not long after John had seen Sherlock as himself.
Perhaps he's working out a new disguise? Trying to find some discernible pattern in his own disguise kit?
The kettle whistles and John pours the boiling water over the tea bags. Really, he has no idea. But it's often wise to go into a conversation with Sherlock with at least an idea or two.
John fixes both of their cuppas, carries them to the edge of the sitting room.
"Redecorating, then? Finding something new for the skull?"
Sherlock turns his head, the corner of his mouth quirks upward, but he doesn't answer. Not at first.
"Can I walk through?" John asks. "Will I disturb things?"
Sherlock waves his hand vaguely, frowns at the wigs in front of him.
John navigates his way carefully, hands Sherlock one of the mugs, then perches on the edge of the overstuffed chair, heels off his shoes and rests his feet on the cushion.
"So, what's going on, then?" John asks.
"I'm trying to understand."
"Trying to understand... ?"
"Trying to understand why. Trying to understand you."
John looks around. "And the disguises will help you do that?"
"Of course they will. Obviously." Sherlock murmurs to himself, "The answer has got to be here. Somewhere."
Taking a sip of his tea, John considers what Sherlock has told him.
"So, all of your disguises, trying to trick me. You said that you started because you were bored. Why did you keep doing it, then?"
Sherlock looks up at him.
"You were far quicker to pick up on every disguise than anyone has done."
"That's because you were always flirting with me!"
"I was not."
"Sherlock." John is incredulous. "You were."
Sherlock doesn't say anything. John looks at him for a moment, reading the bewilderment in his face. Then he realises: the attraction, the desire he read in Sherlock isn't a new thing. Sherlock has wanted John for a long time, but... he hasn't been aware of it.
John takes a chance. "Sherlock, perhaps what you're doing here is not trying to understand me at all. I think, maybe, that you're trying to understand yourself."
"What can you possibly mean by that?" Sherlock's voice is dismissive. "Of course I understand myself."
"Do you?"
"Obviously."
"So there's nothing about you that you need to learn, that is still a mystery? You're an open book to yourself, then?"
Sherlock's look would wither nearby plants if they were the sort to keep plants in their flat.
"You know, it is possible that there are workings of your mind -- of your body -- that you're unaware of."
Sherlock huffs a breath of impatience, but John is still oddly calm as he continues.
"Alright, so let's look at it objectively, then. Take Brad. Why don't you explain to me why, during your time as Brad, you deviated enough from your established, deliberate pattern so that you ripped out the notes from your journal and considered it to invalidate all of the previous data - so much so that you stopped that line of experimentation altogether?"
"That wasn't me, obviously. That was you."
"I had nothing to do your behaviour, Sherlock. You've already said that you can predict behaviour. You should have known."
Sherlock's eyes narrow at him. "I can predict behaviour," he bellows, "I just can't predict yours!"
John's quiet for a minute.
"So you're telling me that all of those disguises were an attempt to try to predict my behaviour?"
"We've already covered this."
"And yet, you're sitting here in the midst of your disguise kit and you can't find a pattern for any of it. You can't explain why my behaviour is unpredictable to you, or even why you're so driven to know it?"
Sherlock doesn't say anything.
John's heart tightens a little. He steps out of the chair, picking his way through the debris on the floor until he's just in front of Sherlock. He clears a small area for himself, stacking things neatly over to his left, then sits down, his body a mirror of Sherlock's posture.
"I'm going to tell you something," he says quietly. "Today I went out to have a walk. When I walk, I often notice things, watch other people." He grins. "Sometimes I even try to think like Sherlock Holmes. I notice. I try to deduce."
The corners of Sherlock's eyes crinkle slightly. He looks pleased.
"So, today I sat in the park watching some blokes warming up for a rugby match. There were people all over: children playing, people walking their dogs, people reclining under trees and reading, talking... pretty much anything you can imagine.
"This one man caught my eye. He was dressed in regular clothes, nondescript, and he had two children with him. He was this very obviously sweet father. But he didn't stay that way, Sherlock. The minute he put on his jersey to play rugby? He was a totally different bloke. He was loud, foul-mouthed, almost cruel. In the short time between when I saw him with his children and when he put on his rugby kit he changed... it was like I was watching two different people entirely."
John stops talking, is quiet. He watches Sherlock take it all in. He's still facing John, but his eyes are darting different places; he's thinking. When he looks back at John, John takes a slow breath.
"Why did you dress as Brad last night, Sherlock? Why did you touch me, kiss me... why did you let me kiss you back, but then disappear as soon as I said your name?"
"I don't... know." Sherlock's eyes are open, honest. He still hasn't moved from his position on the floor, but he's looking directly at John, his body leaning the slightest bit toward him.
There's a question that's been nagging at John for a while now, it's probably nothing, but it's been bothering him.
"Do you dress as Brad with anyone else?"
Sherlock's eyebrows raise slightly. "... no."
"Have you done?"
"No, John, that disguise was only... I only did it with you."
John wants to ask him why he brought out the disguise again, if it had only been in use once, more than seventeen years ago, but it doesn't seem like the right time. So he tries a different one.
"What was it like when you were Brad?"
Sherlock sighs.
"When I dressed as Brad -- when I was with you -- I didn't have to think. I didn't have to temper my words, didn't have to think about the potentially disastrous consequences of saying whatever came into my head."
"Of course not," John says. "I wanted you just as much. That's what desire is about: letting go, giving yourself over to something you want on a very basic level, to something you don't have to think about."
"And you - do that?"
"Not in a long time." John looks down for a moment. "Not since... well, you."
He has an idea, sort of a long shot, but it's worth a try. He looks back up, licks his lip, then looks directly at Sherlock. Holding his gaze, John licks his lip again and leans forward. He lets his mouth part a little and glances down at Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's eyelids flutter the slightest bit, his own lips part, and he glances at John's lips before flicking his gaze back to John's eyes.
John moves another infinitesimal bit forward; his own heart pounds its way to the surface of his chest. It's all he can do not to push forward, to crush their lips together and kiss Sherlock deeply, kiss him until they're gasping and clutching at each other and Sherlock is spilling his desires into the air around them.
Really, John knows he's acting a bit, overdoing this a little to make a point, but the reality is that he can't think of anything else. He's done so much thinking over the past week, so much bloody introspection. John knows -- has known for a while -- what he wants. He wants Sherlock so badly he can feel it pulsing in his blood, filling the fibres of his muscle.
It's about time for Sherlock to get a clue.
Sherlock has moved closer to John; they're about half a foot apart right now and inching closer. John can see the thin skin under Sherlock's eyes, the mole above his left eyebrow. The sounds around them have tunnelled until John can't hear anything but Sherlock's breath, his own.
This is Sherlock in front of him, not anyone else. The dark disorderly curls, the otherworldly cheekbones, the strong line of his nose. This isn't a made up character, someone meant to throw John off-guard, someone whose only role is to collect some sort of inexplicable data. John inches forward again; they're so close now that he can feel Sherlock's breath wash over him. It's tangible: the scent and feel of Sherlock undisguised, and almost unbearably erotic.
John's heart is in his throat. A part of him hopes this doesn't work, that somehow this kiss will be the kiss of fairy stories and mend everything. Then in the morning they'll be tangled together, warm, nude, and sated, and all this will be a faint memory behind them.
Less than an inch now, perhaps half. John wets his lips, glances down at Sherlock's marvellously shaped upper lip.
They kiss.
Oh god.
John can feel his eyes shut but pries them back open. He watches Sherlock's eyes flutter shut, watches the subtle changes in his cheeks as they kiss gently, slowly. His stomach aches with longing, and looking at Sherlock's skin so closely is starting to do him in. John wants to taste every texture: the rough scratch of stubble on his jaw, the hair on his brow, the sweet indulgence of his cheekbone, the edge of his hairline.
He is about to shut his eyes, to open his mouth and kiss Sherlock in a way that would make pedestrians on the street blush, when he sees Sherlock's eyes flicker open, widen almost comically.
He pulls back.
Sherlock's chest rises and falls rapidly; his heart rate is obviously elevated. John doesn't move from his spot on the floor, just observes. He watches Sherlock's eyes, sometimes so absurdly clear in what he's thinking. Either John has learned a lot about Sherlock in the past months or John is the only person Sherlock will let see his face this open.
John watches the thoughts flare over Sherlock's eyes like blips on an EKG. Sherlock hasn't looked away; his eyes roam over John like an artist's might, learning the lines and dips and shadows.
Sherlock thinks so hard that John can almost feel the temperature in the room rise. He unfastens his top button, but keeps his focus on Sherlock. Finally, his mouth drops open, Sherlock presses the fingertips of his right hand to his lips, and he whispers,
"Oh."
And now -- for the first time, in all of the bizarre, dangerous situations they've been in together -- Sherlock looks terrified.
"You have a lot to say," John says quietly.
Sherlock nods. He doesn't move his fingers from his mouth.
"But you don't know how to say any of it."
He shakes his head.
John smiles at him, hopes the warmth he feels is obvious in his expression. He feels like he's finally figuring this out... like he's finally starting to understand. Sherlock has had no idea what he was using his disguises for, or at the very least, he hasn't known all of his motives.
For someone so brilliant, Sherlock can be remarkably blind to his own intentions.
"So," John's voice is still quiet, "what if you put on a disguise, then? Use one that'll let you say what you're thinking." He wants to reach out, cover Sherlock's hand with his own, tell him all of the stupid, romantic thoughts in his head. But he keeps his hands deliberately to himself, nods instead. "Then you won't have to."
~*~
When John was in the army, he developed a strange habit of attaching significance to certain items beyond what they actually possessed. He attributes part of it to the face that in Afghanistan he had very few things to keep track of (gun, clothing, boots) and even fewer belongings.
His mess kit had a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant (when it worked), soap, and every once in a while a bottle of shampoo. Shampoo was a bit of a luxury; he normally just used soap.
One shower, after John had been over there for less than a month or so, John stood under the spray, shell-shocked by his experience on the front line. Naylor had been shot right next to him as they'd walked. John had not been able to shake the look on Naylor's face: his mouth open in silent surprise, eyes wide in shock. Had John been another two feet to the right, it would have been him.
He remembers standing in the shower, letting the weak spray slide over his skin, mingling with the tears he didn't bother to hide and staring at the shampoo bottle in his hand. It was less than a sixth gone (John didn't have much hair; he didn't need much shampoo at all).
Will this last? he remembers thinking, or will this be the very last bottle of shampoo that I ever use?
He had wondered how many bottles he might go through before he, too, was taken by enemy fire.
Would he outlast the bottle or would it outlast him?
It was a little more morbid than John was used to, but he'd never been confronted with such obvious mortality before his time in the army.
Even as a doctor, before he'd joined up, John had rarely thought that deeply about his own mortality. Yes, people died every day, and yes, things were misdiagnosed, but one of the things about being a trained doctor was that John knew how to fix, how to heal.
It's one thing to know how to heal, how to perform surgery, how to diagnose from a quick exam, but it was another thing altogether to see someone's heart explode in front of him and realise that there was nothing he could do about it.
Nor was there anything he could do for himself.
John sits at the (still mostly clean) table in the kitchen, spinning a jar of honey gently between his fingers and thinking about it. John had bought the jar at Tesco's more than three weeks ago, after Sherlock had said something off the cuff about John's tendency toward jam on toast and that there were plenty more toppings one could use for sustenance.
And given the constant push-pull between them regarding getting Sherlock to actually eat on a regular basis, John had jumped at the possibility that there might be something that could get Sherlock to consume more than just a cup of coffee or tea in the morning.
The honey is half gone now.
John considers it a success.
He stares at the jar now, though. Three weeks ago, when it was full, he'd known nothing of what he knows now. Three weeks ago they'd been on the Miller case, arguing about beans, chasing after Beatrice Wright. Three weeks ago John had been blissfully unaware of the changes that were about to befall them. Three weeks ago, John hadn't thought about Brad in years. He had managed to successfully bury that experience until it was little more than a faint embarrassment from early adulthood.
Little did he know what was going to surface between them just a couple of weeks hence.
When this honey jar had been full, John had been a GP at Sarah's surgery, following and assisting Sherlock on cases, fully capable of (mostly) ignoring the attraction he felt to his brilliant flatmate.
But now the honey is half gone and everything has changed. It's impossible for more than an hour to pass without John's thoughts streaming back to Sherlock, without John watching his mouth and wanting.
He holds the jar up to the light and looks at the honey-gold colour, watches the slow viscosity of it as it glides down the edges of the jar.
If things can change so much in three weeks, he wonders, what will it be like when this jar is empty? Will it take two weeks? Three? More? And will John still be talking with Sherlock, trying to work through the pile of rubble Sherlock has piled around himself so high that he can't quite peer over?
Or maybe, just maybe, will they have figured this (whatever 'this' is between them) out by then? Will John know what it's like to fall asleep, sated and sweat-dirty, curled around a long, thin body? Will he wake in Sherlock's bed, bemused and tolerant of the biological paraphernalia scattered around? Will they fall into sleep together, drunk on kisses, both of their minds blissed out and focused on nothing but skin?
John shudders a little, sits back in his chair and smirks at the honey. Get a grip, Watson, he tells himself, no need to get overly romantic.
To distract himself, John turns to look at the sitting room, just recently littered with Sherlock's substantial disguise kit. He really ought to put things back into some semblance of order.
He spends the next ten minutes moving the coffee table back, the chairs, stacking old newspapers and adding them to the ever-growing pile by the door, returning books to shelves.
John has half a mind on what Sherlock is doing just down the corridor. John had suggested that Sherlock put on a disguise, something that might finally allow them to talk without Sherlock's barriers getting in their way every time. What is he doing right now? John's fascinated, in spite of his frustration with the entire situation, at the fact that Sherlock is capable of almost fully changing his appearance. He knows that a large bit of it also has to do with the fact that Sherlock has studied behaviour, habits, for so long now. That he can slip into a different personality on a whim, someone completely unlike himself. He also has enough skill with make up, with prosthetics, that he can make himself look like a different human being altogether.
It's remarkable.
And, really, yet another reason John can barely get him out of his mind. Add it to the endless list of things Sherlock can do flawlessly. But really, what John can't stop wondering is this: when Sherlock comes into the sitting room, who will he be?
Will he be someone completely different? Perhaps a disguise John has seen before?
He couldn't care less, to be honest; he just wants the chance to talk to Sherlock, the chance to get all of this -- whatever it is -- out in the open... even if it they can't figure it all out.
The creak of Sherlock's door interrupts John's thoughts. He feels his heart freeze for a moment, then he turns around slowly.
He has no idea who he's about to see.
~*~
"Brad," John whispers. Of course. Had he really thought about it, he would have realised that would be the disguise. None of the others had ever opened up to John. It had to be Brad.
John sits heavily in the chair and looks up at Sherlock. He mentally cautions himself against using Sherlock's name, reminds himself to be careful here. John has enough experience with skittish, nervous patients; he knows how to be gentle.
He's just not so sure he's all that capable of that around Sherlock, er, Brad. Who-the-fuck-ever.
Brad strides across the room, pulls John to his feet and snogs him roughly. John's startled into quiet, then his body catches on and he kisses back: lips opening, tongue pressing, wet on wet and so good. The kisses sink down inside him, attach to every air molecule and carry them through his body. It's everything he can do to remain on his feet.
John can't think but to want this: warm lips, a strong body pressed (everywhere) against him, and all the bloody time in the world to let it happen.
Brad's hands are everywhere: on his back, cupping his skull, sliding down to rest on his arse. John presses back, lets his own hands wander. He thinks in single syllables: god, and yes, and this. The night settles around them, the streetlight streams in through the window, painting a warm glow over the side of Brad's face, and John dips his tongue out to taste it.
"The way you taste," he whispers. "God, it's everything."
This isn't quite what he expected. John had thought they'd start by talking, thought Sherlock might finally be free of whatever was holding him back and would actually be able to admit to himself some of the things John has inferred about him.
But John's only human. A red-blooded sodding human male, in fact, and it's really hard to concentrate on conversation when he can feel Brad's erection pressed hard against his hip. If this is what Sherlock needs to get himself ready, well, John's not going to stand in the way. Or, to be technically correct, John is going to stand directly in the way and let Sherlock touch (hypnotise, ravish) him however he desires.
He loses track of the minutes they spend there, mouths together, breath mingled, hands everywhere. John's mind swims with pleasure; he's always loved kissing and this is bloody addictive. He could do this forever.
"You were the only one," Brad gasps. John breaks out of his reverie for a moment, licks the corners of his lips lazily, can't pull his mouth away from Brad's face (doesn't want to).
"Hmm...?"
"The only one... you were the only one that made me feel anything. God, the things I wanted to do to you. I couldn't shut my mouth off with you, didn't even want to."
"Tell me," John murmurs against his temple, dragging his lips over the ginger sideburns until he can pull Brad's earlobe between his teeth.
"I wanted you. It was like I'd always wanted you... you did - things to my head, connected the synapses, made my thoughts make sense."
John doesn’t know if he's talking to Brad or Sherlock, but he's determined not to interrupt the flow. He knows Sherlock needs to let this out, needs to say it. To be honest -- to be completely fucking honest -- John needs it, too. He needs to hear this, needs to somehow let his younger self off the hook for falling so deeply for someone he'd just met, someone that made him feel in ways he hadn't before.
"I wanted you, too," John says quietly, then pulls at Brad's earlobe with his teeth, licks the skin just under.
"I wasn't completely honest with you."
"No?"
"No. No, John, I lied to you." Brad's chin is in the air, his eyes are shut, and he lets out quiet little gasps when John brushes his skin with his lips.
"It's okay," John murmurs, tugging gently on the back of his head until he can press their lips together again: once, twice, more... he loses count. He wants to hear this, yes, but he wants that mouth, those lips. God, he's so addicted and he wants so desperately. "People lie sometimes... it's alright."
He runs his tongue over the full expanse of Brad's lower lip, then looks back up.
"You're not lying now, are you?" he asks quietly.
"No." Brad's eyes fly open for a moment, wide. "Not at all."
"Good." John shuts his eyes, kisses again, sliding his hands along miles of fabric, rests his hands on the swell of Brad's spectacular arse.
They kiss for several minutes longer, John getting progressively more and more tuned into the body against him, and far less focused on what he'd initially thought was the goal of this encounter.
Brad walks him backward; his calves hit the edge of the sofa, then he pushes him down, sits next to him.
"John."
He nods, can't keep his eyes from flicking down to Brad's (Sherlock, Sherlock) lips, reddened and wet.
"John, I lied before. I didn't want to make you - didn't want you to leave. I... shouldn't have done."
John freezes for a moment. His blood stops, then starts slowly running through his veins again. He's really... are they really talking about this? He tries to nod encouragingly, doesn't say a word.
"I was..." Brad's voice falters.
"Hey," John says, scooting forward, touching Brad's face lightly. "Take your time."
Brad's Adam's apple bobs deliberately up and down for a moment; he glances down.
"I didn't... no, that's--" He stops for a minute, takes a breath, then looks back up at John. "I'd never felt like that before: so desperate, so needy. I'd never wanted anyone like that, never had anyone look at me the way you did."
John nods slowly, doesn't shift his gaze at all. His throat tightens.
"I just - I was so young, and it wasn't what I was used to doing. I was collecting data: doing experiments, trying to learn about people, about behaviour. I wanted to know patterns, see what was common across different experiences. But with you," he scoots forward, touches John's hip lightly. "I didn't care about any of that. I just wanted to know - you."
His voice falters a little bit, he glances down, then back up. "I just... I wanted you so badly."
John strokes his cheek with his thumb. "I wanted you just as much."
Brad leans forward, kisses John so gently that were his eyes closed he might not have felt it. John kisses back, slowly, carefully. He can see the vulnerability in Brad's eyes, wants to help it disappear.
"I think..." Brad's mouth is a whisper away from John's now; he can feel the words even more than he can hear them. "I think I got... scared."
"You were young."
"So were you."
They're quiet for a moment.
"I tried to delete you. I almost did."
John grins. "Maybe I'm undelete-able."
"I'm - sorry."
John's throat closes completely. He thought he'd been going along with all of this, benignly letting Sherlock as Brad say what he needed to say, but in those two words, everything comes rushing back: Brad's angry face, the way he pushed John away, said things so roughly, seemingly without any feeling left. John feels stricken, doesn't know what to do.
"I fucked up." Brad looks across the room for a minute as he speaks, then his eyes come back to John, rake over him, narrow with concern.
"John?" he says, concerned.
John nods at him, can't speak. He thought he could do this: let Sherlock (or Brad, or whomever) talk to him, let it out, go through whatever he needed to. John had thought he could do this and not be affected, not let everything float up around him and fog his mind with memories. But... god, it's like therapy: talking, sharing, everything you're supposed to do, and then one day, without any warning, everything comes crashing back down and guts you.
Yet, part of John had wanted this: entertained fantasies of Brad showing up, finding him and apologising, telling John he'd never meant to push him away in the first place. And, god, that part of him, that twenty-two year old part of him is fucking elated by this revelation. That part of him wants to go back in time, wants to bring them back more than seventeen years and have another night together: something unfettered by disguises, something untarnished by anything other than the two of them and the intense fucking feelings that had threatened to overwhelm him. That part of him wants to let it play out in another pathway of their lives. He wonders: was the pull between them as intense and real as John's memories recall? What would have happened to them? Would they have come together, fallen deeply in love and been a story that friends told to others with envious smiles and indulgent laughs? Or would it have run its course: burned brightly and fizzled out when the reality of their youth and differences rose up between them?
Though, John also wants to be here, to listen, to be whatever Sherlock needs him to be so he can get out whatever has been blocking him from letting John in.
And yet.
Everything Brad has said so far has all been in the past tense. It's all been about something from so long ago that Sherlock tried to delete and came rushing back to cloud everything.
And while John wants to give this to Sherlock, wants to help him let go of all of the baggage he's unknowingly carried all this time... John wants to move on.
Because everything Brad did in 1992, isn't it like what Sherlock has been doing these last months? Disguising himself, teasing John, pulling him in, then pushing him away again?
John sighs; he's lost in his head again. He blinks a few times, catches Sherlock's eyes on him, and immediately looks down. John realises that he's exhausted. He's not tired of Sherlock, not tired of their life together, not tired of being his friend, of running around with him on ridiculous cases... not any of that.
John is tired of not knowing.
He's tired of being held on such a tether by his own brutal desire and looking for signs that Sherlock might return it in kind. He's tired of trying to look for evidence, of trying to work out instead of being told, tired of having moments of insight and having Sherlock walk away in the middle of it every single time.
"John."
He glances at his hands, his left hand clenching and releasing unconsciously. He can't look back up at Sherlock. He doesn't know what to say, can't make himself form any useful words.
"John."
The voice is intense, full of passion. John's chest tightens.
"I have - things to tell you, things I have to say."
John looks up, keeps his face guarded; he presses his tongue tightly against his hard palate.
"Go on," he says quietly.
"I want you," Sherlock says. "I want you, but I... I didn't - know it. You saw me, saw through me so well. You saw who I was and you stayed. I pulled out my disguise kit not long after you moved in. I was curious to find out how you knew me, if you would no matter what."
John is quiet, listens. Sherlock isn't talking about the past anymore.
"It was intoxicating, exhilarating, trying out new disguises, voices, seeing how you reacted to me, the way your body language changed. You always angled toward me, looked me right in the eye, smiled so genuinely. I watched you with other people; you're genuine with them, too... but you were -- you are -- different with me. Always."
John nods. That's not surprising. Sherlock is unlike anyone he's ever known.
"I became obsessed. Every new experience with you gave me other ideas of characters, of behaviours I might try, professions I could emulate."
Sherlock stands, starts moving around the room as he speaks.
"I paid attention to how others reacted to me, of course, but it wasn't what was interesting to me. You, John. You were fascinating. I could never quite predict your behaviour, your conversation, but you were always drawn to me, always flirted back."
He stops. Turns to look at John for a long moment. "I know I said before that I wasn't flirting. I didn't realise it, didn't consciously know what I was doing, but I was. I know that now."
John turns to face Sherlock, pushes himself up straighter so his back is against the sofa cushion.
Sherlock whirls around, the ginger curls on his head flying out and then settling back down on his head. He walks quickly back to the sofa and sits down, angling his body toward John's. "Don't you see?" His voice is full of feeling.
"Don't you see, John? It's you. It's always you. I always know my thoughts, always know what I'm doing. But I didn't know what I was doing with you. I couldn't see it."
John's mind is whirling. What he wants, what he really wants, is for something to silence the world around them, for the electricity to die out so there will be silence and darkness around them. He wants to shut his eyes and pull Sherlock back against him, wants to lie down and kiss him deeply until their bodies slide together sweetly. But John was not a soldier for nothing. He knows how to control himself, even when his body thrums with longing.
He swallows, looks at Sherlock. "Why do you think you can see it now?"
"I don't - know."
"What changed, then?" John catches himself before he says Sherlock's name. Sherlock's been speaking in present tense, being unusually honest and open, but John's wary of doing anything to upset this precarious balance.
Sherlock looks thoughtful, scrubs his thumb across his bottom lip.
"I... remember things now, everything that happened in 1992. All of it."
"Maybe..." John stops for a minute, not really sure if he should continue. "Maybe now you - want to see it?"
Sherlock nods. "I don't like things that I don't understand."
John looks at him strangely, snorts. "Yes, you do. It's why you're positively gleeful when Lestrade calls you for a new case."
"Well, yes. That." He smiles at John. "But I don't like when I don't understand myself. I dislike feelings of uncertainty, of emotions that don't have a logical place."
"So you - feel something for me."
"I feel so much for you." Sherlock looks stunned. "Do you see how that's so out of place for me?" He stands and starts pacing again. "That first night, when we met... you marvelling at the things I deduced about you, you watching me at Lauriston Gardens like I was fascinating, even your ridiculous questions at the restaurant. It delighted me; I couldn't get enough. I was so drawn to you, and that - terrified me."
Sherlock steps on top of, then sits down on the coffee table, his knees just touching John's.
"This -- " he gestures between them, "this - thing between us. It scares me. I don't - know what to do about that."
John feels a rush of compassion; he's filled with empathy.
"I don't know, either." He smiles slowly at Sherlock, still carefully guarding his words. "But I think that's... alright."
Sherlock looks at him a moment, doesn't say anything.
"Just because we don't have an explanation," John pauses a minute, reaches out to cover Sherlock's knee with his hand, "doesn't mean it isn't worth it."
Sherlock glances down at John's hand, brings his hand to trace John's knuckles lightly. He looks up at John; his face is open, his eyes wide and vulnerable.
"You - want this?" Sherlock's voice is a whisper.
"Badly," John says.
"Even if--"
"Yes. Even then."
Sherlock swallows visibly. He isn't looking at John, focusing somewhere over John's shoulder. John can almost see his mind working, testing out thoughts like the moves of a chess player. Then, after a moment, Sherlock's eyes clear. He looks beautiful, determined.
Sherlock slides forward, his knee between John's thighs.
"Then come to bed," he says quietly. "Come to bed with me."
~*~
:: next part ::
The next day John has to leave. Baker Street has become stifling, too hot for him to breathe. He can't focus on anything.
It's a Saturday. John can tell by the pedestrian traffic on the pavement as he walks: less hurried, people looking at their surroundings, a couple of women even smile at him. Walking has always been good for him, helps him clear his mind.
And, bloody hell, is John's mind in need of a bit of clearing.
John walks mindlessly, turning corners at random, letting himself be guided by something outside of himself. His mind is (still) on overdrive: replaying the events of the previous night in vivid detail. The feel of Sherlock's buttocks under his hands, their mouths crushed together, Sherlock's tongue making him more and more incoherent.
And what had it been for? What bloody purpose had it served, other than to reinforce to Sherlock that no matter what, no matter everything that happens, John will always be helpless against his attraction to Sherlock.
It's been like that since the beginning. John, hauling himself all the way across London to look at a flat with someone he's barely met, following him blindly into the middle of a crime scene (and instinctively complimenting every seventh sentence out of his mouth), suffering willingly through awkward dinner conversations, following him out into a reckless chase through alleys and over rooftops... and that was just their first night.
John sighs as he walks. It's as though, somehow, he's ceased to be his own individual life form and has instead become another part, an extension of Sherlock. Drawn to him, in need of him. Sherlock has become vital to his existence, to his very breath.
Oh, Christ. John is done for.
He passes an open air café, hears snatches of a deliberately loud teenaged girl conversation:
"Oh my god, I just love him. It's like I can't even stop thinking about him long enough to even do my homework."
"Oh, Anne. I think it means you're in love."
John shudders at that, walks another block and leans against an abandoned storefront. It's so clear now. He has got to get out of his head. John's somehow morphed into a teenaged girl, and there is nothing that's not wrong about that.
He needs a distraction. And now.
~*~
The coffee shop hums busily on Saturday afternoon. There are dozens of students frowning at laptops, ostensibly working (though John can see at least three browsing Facebook and at least one more has some other picture journaling site open and is scrolling avidly), friends obviously meeting for coffee and a chat, and what looks like at least one man clearly here to pick someone up. He keeps leering at any woman under the age of 35 that walks in and is garnering quite a few strange looks.
John walks to the counter and smiles at the young girl at the register, Bette. He remembers her as working several times alongside Kate, so there's no chance this is actually Sherlock in disguise. Thank heavens for small favours. Bette has just finished her first year at Uni, and is still pretty naïve about the world of adults.
She lives nearby, has been a patient of John's at the surgery once or twice; the second time saw her nearly sobbing in his office about the quantity of work and the fact that she was horrendously behind, and worried she was going to get kicked out.
"Doctor Watson," she smiles. "What can I get for you?"
"Earl Grey," he says. "Thanks, Bette." He reaches for his wallet, but she waves him off.
"My treat," she says. "You did so much for me: listened to me, didn't act all high-handed and pedantic about everything. I took your advice, you know. Told my flat-mates what I needed, shut off the computer, set a timer when I needed it, and got everything finished in time."
John beams at her. "That's fantastic. I'm happy for you."
She grins back, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. "The others here, they think you're great, too. Alicia definitely fancies you."
John's face heats. He's certain his cheeks are red. "Well, that's - flattering. And believe me, I know which coffee shop is my favourite. I guess I'll have to keep coming back."
"You would anyway, we make the best coffee and tea in London."
"Can't argue with that."
Bette hands him the hot cup, the smile fully reaching her eyes. "Come back soon."
"I will. Take care of yourself, Bette."
"Always, Doctor Watson."
~*~
John's wandering brings him to a park. The weather is pleasant; the rain seems to have brought everything to a manageable temperature and the sun is warm overhead.
He sits down in one of the benches, watching the flurry of activity as various men arrive, dressed in a couple of different colours. They must be here for a match of some sort. John shifts on the bench. This might be just what he needs: a bit of sport to distract him from his rampant introspection.
Some of the men start warming up, tossing the rugby ball sideways between them, doing quick sets of knee lifts, jogging from one end of the pitch to the other. If John were smart, he'd get himself together and find a team or a pick up game a few times a week. Anything to keep him moving more often.
Though, John certainly gets plenty of activity chasing after Sherlock.
Which is really not the train of thought he needs to continue right now. He shakes his head, looks around to compose himself. Walking up the path is a man with two children, one looking about ten years old, and the other must be barely three. They get to the side of the pitch and the man drops his bag, unzipping and pulling out a dark green jersey.
The three year old bursts into tears. John can't make out what they're saying (he's not trying to eavesdrop, just curious), but it's clear the youth wants him to stay and play. He keeps pointing over to the climbing structure and frowning at the men jogging around the pitch.
The man (is he the father?) speaks low, quietly. His face is open, fond, full of love as he speaks, gesturing to the ten year old, then to the playground and pointing to his watch. The three year old nods with large, wet eyes, his lips screwed up in the way only young children can manage.
The ten year old says something in an overly bright voice and reaches for the three year old's hand, obviously planning to lead him toward the playground. The father (he must be the father; the love on his face is apparent) claps the ten year old on the shoulder, watches them go, the dark jersey hanging from his hands, forgotten for the moment. His face is raw with emotion, drenched in pride, in affection. He stares for a long moment, obviously lost in thought.
Then one of the other players tosses the rugby ball at him; it hits his calf and bounces to the ground. He looks up, and shakes his head. He pulls his tee shirt over his head, then pulls on his jersey and calls out something obscene as he jogs out to the pitch. It's clear he's talking shit to some of the others already there. It's such a marked change from his behaviour of just the previous moment that John is intrigued.
The match kicks off not long after that, exciting from the start. It's clear there's a healthy rivalry between these two teams: the chatter during the match is non-stop, loud, and full of inventive curses. The teams are well matched, and some of the players have clearly been playing for a long time. John watches some of the well-executed plays, fluid as though they were choreographed, and wishes (again) that he could be out there: sweat, laughter, the pleasant sting of hard work filling his thighs, lungs burning from exertion.
A shout breaks his reverie. The man he'd been watching before (the back of his jersey says "McAllister") is shouting at another player, his face screwed up in anger. McAllister steps forward, curses falling from his lips, and the other player mutters something under his breath.
Two other players come stand between them, pulling the two away from each other and speaking to them quietly. It's a few minutes before the match gets underway again.
After a few more plays, McAllister is upset again by the same player. John sees it this time, the player on the opposing team knocking him down while he's attempting to score a try. This time McAllister launches himself at the other man, yelling obscenities and lashing out with his fists. The two are wrapped around each other in a violent dance. Their fists connect, faces screwed up in rage.
It's so incongruous to the gentle, loving behaviour John had witnessed in McAllister just a quarter hour before. It's fascinating; he could be watching two different men.
Oh.
John's vision blurs a little, focuses on Sherlock as Brad in 1992, emotionally open, his words matching his touch, to Sherlock as Brad touching John just last night, the hunger in his eyes so obvious. He flashes quickly between each of the disguises John caught Sherlock in, each of them distinctly different, markedly dissimilar to Sherlock himself.
John feels a little ridiculous. How had he not seen it before? He'd figured out that Sherlock was attracted to him (why else would every single disguise of his flirt with John?), but it had never occurred to him to think about why Sherlock would have used the disguises in the first place.
Costumes, disguises... a chance to pretend, to imagine.
A disguise allows someone be a different person entirely, lets them try on a new personality. In the same way putting on that rugby jersey let McAllister change from a loving, concerned father into a ruthless player, capable of violence and callous anger, each disguise let Sherlock tap into a different character, a different personality.
The disguises let him... hide.
Last night, John hadn't let him do that. Immediately, John had pushed the Brad personality out of his mind, focusing instead on Sherlock: Sherlock's body against his, Sherlock's fingers mapping his skin, Sherlock's mouth against his throat. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.
To John's credit, last night he hadn't been actively ignoring any potential need Sherlock might have had to hide. John had honestly thought that it was Sherlock's way of bridging that gap between them, making up for the awful end in 1992, and the years of buried longing.
But, no. No, Sherlock had dressed as Brad last night because... well, because why, exactly? Because he wanted to talk to John? Because he was aroused? Because of some other, complicated train of thought that John would never be able to follow?
What made him stop? John thinks back, lets his mind (selfishly) linger on the touches between them, the bruising feel of Sherlock's lips on his, before walking through as much as he can remember.
No... it wasn't until John had said something -- said Sherlock's name -- that everything stopped.
Well, and Sherlock is different than any other person John has ever known. When has Sherlock ever fallen into a predictable behavioural pattern?
So, instead of letting him hide, maybe the disguises let him... act on what he really wants?
The green of the park comes into stark relief around him and John blinks rapidly, looking around. He has no idea what parts of this convoluted train of thought might actually be useful, but he feels a little more settled, at least.
One thing is painfully clear: John needs to talk to Sherlock.
~*~
When John walks into their flat, Sherlock is sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by what appears to be an entire costume shop upended on the floor in a ludicrous mess. The coffee table has been pushed back, the chairs are up against the shelves. John's never before realised how large their sitting room is, and he grins to himself. Always too full of clutter.
He stands in the doorway for a moment, watching Sherlock. He sits with his legs crossed as a child might, but he's very still. His back is mostly to John, but John imagines his eyes are flicking quickly across the items scattered around him, trying to find some sort of pattern.
John clears his throat.
"Yes, John, I know you're there. I heard you come in."
"It's often considered polite to offer a greeting when someone returns home."
"So might your similar lack of greeting also be construed as something other than polite?"
John laughs. "Yeah, alright then. Touché."
There's a (thin) path through the sitting room to the kitchen, which John navigates carefully. He's loath to disturb anything until he knows why Sherlock has taken over the floor.
"Tea then?"
"Your third cup today, John?"
"How did-- you know what... never mind. Yes, I'm indulging in my third cup today. Would you like one or not?"
"Please."
As John putters around the kitchen, flicking the kettle on and pulling out the box of tea bags, he tries to go over why Sherlock might be doing this. In all their months together as flatmates, John has never seen Sherlock getting into a disguise, has only been a party to the disguises once Sherlock has them on. But, he must have all sorts of pieces somewhere here at Baker Street: wigs, make up, clothing, because so often their encounters happened right in this area, and not long after John had seen Sherlock as himself.
Perhaps he's working out a new disguise? Trying to find some discernible pattern in his own disguise kit?
The kettle whistles and John pours the boiling water over the tea bags. Really, he has no idea. But it's often wise to go into a conversation with Sherlock with at least an idea or two.
John fixes both of their cuppas, carries them to the edge of the sitting room.
"Redecorating, then? Finding something new for the skull?"
Sherlock turns his head, the corner of his mouth quirks upward, but he doesn't answer. Not at first.
"Can I walk through?" John asks. "Will I disturb things?"
Sherlock waves his hand vaguely, frowns at the wigs in front of him.
John navigates his way carefully, hands Sherlock one of the mugs, then perches on the edge of the overstuffed chair, heels off his shoes and rests his feet on the cushion.
"So, what's going on, then?" John asks.
"I'm trying to understand."
"Trying to understand... ?"
"Trying to understand why. Trying to understand you."
John looks around. "And the disguises will help you do that?"
"Of course they will. Obviously." Sherlock murmurs to himself, "The answer has got to be here. Somewhere."
Taking a sip of his tea, John considers what Sherlock has told him.
"So, all of your disguises, trying to trick me. You said that you started because you were bored. Why did you keep doing it, then?"
Sherlock looks up at him.
"You were far quicker to pick up on every disguise than anyone has done."
"That's because you were always flirting with me!"
"I was not."
"Sherlock." John is incredulous. "You were."
Sherlock doesn't say anything. John looks at him for a moment, reading the bewilderment in his face. Then he realises: the attraction, the desire he read in Sherlock isn't a new thing. Sherlock has wanted John for a long time, but... he hasn't been aware of it.
John takes a chance. "Sherlock, perhaps what you're doing here is not trying to understand me at all. I think, maybe, that you're trying to understand yourself."
"What can you possibly mean by that?" Sherlock's voice is dismissive. "Of course I understand myself."
"Do you?"
"Obviously."
"So there's nothing about you that you need to learn, that is still a mystery? You're an open book to yourself, then?"
Sherlock's look would wither nearby plants if they were the sort to keep plants in their flat.
"You know, it is possible that there are workings of your mind -- of your body -- that you're unaware of."
Sherlock huffs a breath of impatience, but John is still oddly calm as he continues.
"Alright, so let's look at it objectively, then. Take Brad. Why don't you explain to me why, during your time as Brad, you deviated enough from your established, deliberate pattern so that you ripped out the notes from your journal and considered it to invalidate all of the previous data - so much so that you stopped that line of experimentation altogether?"
"That wasn't me, obviously. That was you."
"I had nothing to do your behaviour, Sherlock. You've already said that you can predict behaviour. You should have known."
Sherlock's eyes narrow at him. "I can predict behaviour," he bellows, "I just can't predict yours!"
John's quiet for a minute.
"So you're telling me that all of those disguises were an attempt to try to predict my behaviour?"
"We've already covered this."
"And yet, you're sitting here in the midst of your disguise kit and you can't find a pattern for any of it. You can't explain why my behaviour is unpredictable to you, or even why you're so driven to know it?"
Sherlock doesn't say anything.
John's heart tightens a little. He steps out of the chair, picking his way through the debris on the floor until he's just in front of Sherlock. He clears a small area for himself, stacking things neatly over to his left, then sits down, his body a mirror of Sherlock's posture.
"I'm going to tell you something," he says quietly. "Today I went out to have a walk. When I walk, I often notice things, watch other people." He grins. "Sometimes I even try to think like Sherlock Holmes. I notice. I try to deduce."
The corners of Sherlock's eyes crinkle slightly. He looks pleased.
"So, today I sat in the park watching some blokes warming up for a rugby match. There were people all over: children playing, people walking their dogs, people reclining under trees and reading, talking... pretty much anything you can imagine.
"This one man caught my eye. He was dressed in regular clothes, nondescript, and he had two children with him. He was this very obviously sweet father. But he didn't stay that way, Sherlock. The minute he put on his jersey to play rugby? He was a totally different bloke. He was loud, foul-mouthed, almost cruel. In the short time between when I saw him with his children and when he put on his rugby kit he changed... it was like I was watching two different people entirely."
John stops talking, is quiet. He watches Sherlock take it all in. He's still facing John, but his eyes are darting different places; he's thinking. When he looks back at John, John takes a slow breath.
"Why did you dress as Brad last night, Sherlock? Why did you touch me, kiss me... why did you let me kiss you back, but then disappear as soon as I said your name?"
"I don't... know." Sherlock's eyes are open, honest. He still hasn't moved from his position on the floor, but he's looking directly at John, his body leaning the slightest bit toward him.
There's a question that's been nagging at John for a while now, it's probably nothing, but it's been bothering him.
"Do you dress as Brad with anyone else?"
Sherlock's eyebrows raise slightly. "... no."
"Have you done?"
"No, John, that disguise was only... I only did it with you."
John wants to ask him why he brought out the disguise again, if it had only been in use once, more than seventeen years ago, but it doesn't seem like the right time. So he tries a different one.
"What was it like when you were Brad?"
Sherlock sighs.
"When I dressed as Brad -- when I was with you -- I didn't have to think. I didn't have to temper my words, didn't have to think about the potentially disastrous consequences of saying whatever came into my head."
"Of course not," John says. "I wanted you just as much. That's what desire is about: letting go, giving yourself over to something you want on a very basic level, to something you don't have to think about."
"And you - do that?"
"Not in a long time." John looks down for a moment. "Not since... well, you."
He has an idea, sort of a long shot, but it's worth a try. He looks back up, licks his lip, then looks directly at Sherlock. Holding his gaze, John licks his lip again and leans forward. He lets his mouth part a little and glances down at Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's eyelids flutter the slightest bit, his own lips part, and he glances at John's lips before flicking his gaze back to John's eyes.
John moves another infinitesimal bit forward; his own heart pounds its way to the surface of his chest. It's all he can do not to push forward, to crush their lips together and kiss Sherlock deeply, kiss him until they're gasping and clutching at each other and Sherlock is spilling his desires into the air around them.
Really, John knows he's acting a bit, overdoing this a little to make a point, but the reality is that he can't think of anything else. He's done so much thinking over the past week, so much bloody introspection. John knows -- has known for a while -- what he wants. He wants Sherlock so badly he can feel it pulsing in his blood, filling the fibres of his muscle.
It's about time for Sherlock to get a clue.
Sherlock has moved closer to John; they're about half a foot apart right now and inching closer. John can see the thin skin under Sherlock's eyes, the mole above his left eyebrow. The sounds around them have tunnelled until John can't hear anything but Sherlock's breath, his own.
This is Sherlock in front of him, not anyone else. The dark disorderly curls, the otherworldly cheekbones, the strong line of his nose. This isn't a made up character, someone meant to throw John off-guard, someone whose only role is to collect some sort of inexplicable data. John inches forward again; they're so close now that he can feel Sherlock's breath wash over him. It's tangible: the scent and feel of Sherlock undisguised, and almost unbearably erotic.
John's heart is in his throat. A part of him hopes this doesn't work, that somehow this kiss will be the kiss of fairy stories and mend everything. Then in the morning they'll be tangled together, warm, nude, and sated, and all this will be a faint memory behind them.
Less than an inch now, perhaps half. John wets his lips, glances down at Sherlock's marvellously shaped upper lip.
They kiss.
Oh god.
John can feel his eyes shut but pries them back open. He watches Sherlock's eyes flutter shut, watches the subtle changes in his cheeks as they kiss gently, slowly. His stomach aches with longing, and looking at Sherlock's skin so closely is starting to do him in. John wants to taste every texture: the rough scratch of stubble on his jaw, the hair on his brow, the sweet indulgence of his cheekbone, the edge of his hairline.
He is about to shut his eyes, to open his mouth and kiss Sherlock in a way that would make pedestrians on the street blush, when he sees Sherlock's eyes flicker open, widen almost comically.
He pulls back.
Sherlock's chest rises and falls rapidly; his heart rate is obviously elevated. John doesn't move from his spot on the floor, just observes. He watches Sherlock's eyes, sometimes so absurdly clear in what he's thinking. Either John has learned a lot about Sherlock in the past months or John is the only person Sherlock will let see his face this open.
John watches the thoughts flare over Sherlock's eyes like blips on an EKG. Sherlock hasn't looked away; his eyes roam over John like an artist's might, learning the lines and dips and shadows.
Sherlock thinks so hard that John can almost feel the temperature in the room rise. He unfastens his top button, but keeps his focus on Sherlock. Finally, his mouth drops open, Sherlock presses the fingertips of his right hand to his lips, and he whispers,
"Oh."
And now -- for the first time, in all of the bizarre, dangerous situations they've been in together -- Sherlock looks terrified.
"You have a lot to say," John says quietly.
Sherlock nods. He doesn't move his fingers from his mouth.
"But you don't know how to say any of it."
He shakes his head.
John smiles at him, hopes the warmth he feels is obvious in his expression. He feels like he's finally figuring this out... like he's finally starting to understand. Sherlock has had no idea what he was using his disguises for, or at the very least, he hasn't known all of his motives.
For someone so brilliant, Sherlock can be remarkably blind to his own intentions.
"So," John's voice is still quiet, "what if you put on a disguise, then? Use one that'll let you say what you're thinking." He wants to reach out, cover Sherlock's hand with his own, tell him all of the stupid, romantic thoughts in his head. But he keeps his hands deliberately to himself, nods instead. "Then you won't have to."
~*~
When John was in the army, he developed a strange habit of attaching significance to certain items beyond what they actually possessed. He attributes part of it to the face that in Afghanistan he had very few things to keep track of (gun, clothing, boots) and even fewer belongings.
His mess kit had a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant (when it worked), soap, and every once in a while a bottle of shampoo. Shampoo was a bit of a luxury; he normally just used soap.
One shower, after John had been over there for less than a month or so, John stood under the spray, shell-shocked by his experience on the front line. Naylor had been shot right next to him as they'd walked. John had not been able to shake the look on Naylor's face: his mouth open in silent surprise, eyes wide in shock. Had John been another two feet to the right, it would have been him.
He remembers standing in the shower, letting the weak spray slide over his skin, mingling with the tears he didn't bother to hide and staring at the shampoo bottle in his hand. It was less than a sixth gone (John didn't have much hair; he didn't need much shampoo at all).
Will this last? he remembers thinking, or will this be the very last bottle of shampoo that I ever use?
He had wondered how many bottles he might go through before he, too, was taken by enemy fire.
Would he outlast the bottle or would it outlast him?
It was a little more morbid than John was used to, but he'd never been confronted with such obvious mortality before his time in the army.
Even as a doctor, before he'd joined up, John had rarely thought that deeply about his own mortality. Yes, people died every day, and yes, things were misdiagnosed, but one of the things about being a trained doctor was that John knew how to fix, how to heal.
It's one thing to know how to heal, how to perform surgery, how to diagnose from a quick exam, but it was another thing altogether to see someone's heart explode in front of him and realise that there was nothing he could do about it.
Nor was there anything he could do for himself.
John sits at the (still mostly clean) table in the kitchen, spinning a jar of honey gently between his fingers and thinking about it. John had bought the jar at Tesco's more than three weeks ago, after Sherlock had said something off the cuff about John's tendency toward jam on toast and that there were plenty more toppings one could use for sustenance.
And given the constant push-pull between them regarding getting Sherlock to actually eat on a regular basis, John had jumped at the possibility that there might be something that could get Sherlock to consume more than just a cup of coffee or tea in the morning.
The honey is half gone now.
John considers it a success.
He stares at the jar now, though. Three weeks ago, when it was full, he'd known nothing of what he knows now. Three weeks ago they'd been on the Miller case, arguing about beans, chasing after Beatrice Wright. Three weeks ago John had been blissfully unaware of the changes that were about to befall them. Three weeks ago, John hadn't thought about Brad in years. He had managed to successfully bury that experience until it was little more than a faint embarrassment from early adulthood.
Little did he know what was going to surface between them just a couple of weeks hence.
When this honey jar had been full, John had been a GP at Sarah's surgery, following and assisting Sherlock on cases, fully capable of (mostly) ignoring the attraction he felt to his brilliant flatmate.
But now the honey is half gone and everything has changed. It's impossible for more than an hour to pass without John's thoughts streaming back to Sherlock, without John watching his mouth and wanting.
He holds the jar up to the light and looks at the honey-gold colour, watches the slow viscosity of it as it glides down the edges of the jar.
If things can change so much in three weeks, he wonders, what will it be like when this jar is empty? Will it take two weeks? Three? More? And will John still be talking with Sherlock, trying to work through the pile of rubble Sherlock has piled around himself so high that he can't quite peer over?
Or maybe, just maybe, will they have figured this (whatever 'this' is between them) out by then? Will John know what it's like to fall asleep, sated and sweat-dirty, curled around a long, thin body? Will he wake in Sherlock's bed, bemused and tolerant of the biological paraphernalia scattered around? Will they fall into sleep together, drunk on kisses, both of their minds blissed out and focused on nothing but skin?
John shudders a little, sits back in his chair and smirks at the honey. Get a grip, Watson, he tells himself, no need to get overly romantic.
To distract himself, John turns to look at the sitting room, just recently littered with Sherlock's substantial disguise kit. He really ought to put things back into some semblance of order.
He spends the next ten minutes moving the coffee table back, the chairs, stacking old newspapers and adding them to the ever-growing pile by the door, returning books to shelves.
John has half a mind on what Sherlock is doing just down the corridor. John had suggested that Sherlock put on a disguise, something that might finally allow them to talk without Sherlock's barriers getting in their way every time. What is he doing right now? John's fascinated, in spite of his frustration with the entire situation, at the fact that Sherlock is capable of almost fully changing his appearance. He knows that a large bit of it also has to do with the fact that Sherlock has studied behaviour, habits, for so long now. That he can slip into a different personality on a whim, someone completely unlike himself. He also has enough skill with make up, with prosthetics, that he can make himself look like a different human being altogether.
It's remarkable.
And, really, yet another reason John can barely get him out of his mind. Add it to the endless list of things Sherlock can do flawlessly. But really, what John can't stop wondering is this: when Sherlock comes into the sitting room, who will he be?
Will he be someone completely different? Perhaps a disguise John has seen before?
He couldn't care less, to be honest; he just wants the chance to talk to Sherlock, the chance to get all of this -- whatever it is -- out in the open... even if it they can't figure it all out.
The creak of Sherlock's door interrupts John's thoughts. He feels his heart freeze for a moment, then he turns around slowly.
He has no idea who he's about to see.
~*~
"Brad," John whispers. Of course. Had he really thought about it, he would have realised that would be the disguise. None of the others had ever opened up to John. It had to be Brad.
John sits heavily in the chair and looks up at Sherlock. He mentally cautions himself against using Sherlock's name, reminds himself to be careful here. John has enough experience with skittish, nervous patients; he knows how to be gentle.
He's just not so sure he's all that capable of that around Sherlock, er, Brad. Who-the-fuck-ever.
Brad strides across the room, pulls John to his feet and snogs him roughly. John's startled into quiet, then his body catches on and he kisses back: lips opening, tongue pressing, wet on wet and so good. The kisses sink down inside him, attach to every air molecule and carry them through his body. It's everything he can do to remain on his feet.
John can't think but to want this: warm lips, a strong body pressed (everywhere) against him, and all the bloody time in the world to let it happen.
Brad's hands are everywhere: on his back, cupping his skull, sliding down to rest on his arse. John presses back, lets his own hands wander. He thinks in single syllables: god, and yes, and this. The night settles around them, the streetlight streams in through the window, painting a warm glow over the side of Brad's face, and John dips his tongue out to taste it.
"The way you taste," he whispers. "God, it's everything."
This isn't quite what he expected. John had thought they'd start by talking, thought Sherlock might finally be free of whatever was holding him back and would actually be able to admit to himself some of the things John has inferred about him.
But John's only human. A red-blooded sodding human male, in fact, and it's really hard to concentrate on conversation when he can feel Brad's erection pressed hard against his hip. If this is what Sherlock needs to get himself ready, well, John's not going to stand in the way. Or, to be technically correct, John is going to stand directly in the way and let Sherlock touch (hypnotise, ravish) him however he desires.
He loses track of the minutes they spend there, mouths together, breath mingled, hands everywhere. John's mind swims with pleasure; he's always loved kissing and this is bloody addictive. He could do this forever.
"You were the only one," Brad gasps. John breaks out of his reverie for a moment, licks the corners of his lips lazily, can't pull his mouth away from Brad's face (doesn't want to).
"Hmm...?"
"The only one... you were the only one that made me feel anything. God, the things I wanted to do to you. I couldn't shut my mouth off with you, didn't even want to."
"Tell me," John murmurs against his temple, dragging his lips over the ginger sideburns until he can pull Brad's earlobe between his teeth.
"I wanted you. It was like I'd always wanted you... you did - things to my head, connected the synapses, made my thoughts make sense."
John doesn’t know if he's talking to Brad or Sherlock, but he's determined not to interrupt the flow. He knows Sherlock needs to let this out, needs to say it. To be honest -- to be completely fucking honest -- John needs it, too. He needs to hear this, needs to somehow let his younger self off the hook for falling so deeply for someone he'd just met, someone that made him feel in ways he hadn't before.
"I wanted you, too," John says quietly, then pulls at Brad's earlobe with his teeth, licks the skin just under.
"I wasn't completely honest with you."
"No?"
"No. No, John, I lied to you." Brad's chin is in the air, his eyes are shut, and he lets out quiet little gasps when John brushes his skin with his lips.
"It's okay," John murmurs, tugging gently on the back of his head until he can press their lips together again: once, twice, more... he loses count. He wants to hear this, yes, but he wants that mouth, those lips. God, he's so addicted and he wants so desperately. "People lie sometimes... it's alright."
He runs his tongue over the full expanse of Brad's lower lip, then looks back up.
"You're not lying now, are you?" he asks quietly.
"No." Brad's eyes fly open for a moment, wide. "Not at all."
"Good." John shuts his eyes, kisses again, sliding his hands along miles of fabric, rests his hands on the swell of Brad's spectacular arse.
They kiss for several minutes longer, John getting progressively more and more tuned into the body against him, and far less focused on what he'd initially thought was the goal of this encounter.
Brad walks him backward; his calves hit the edge of the sofa, then he pushes him down, sits next to him.
"John."
He nods, can't keep his eyes from flicking down to Brad's (Sherlock, Sherlock) lips, reddened and wet.
"John, I lied before. I didn't want to make you - didn't want you to leave. I... shouldn't have done."
John freezes for a moment. His blood stops, then starts slowly running through his veins again. He's really... are they really talking about this? He tries to nod encouragingly, doesn't say a word.
"I was..." Brad's voice falters.
"Hey," John says, scooting forward, touching Brad's face lightly. "Take your time."
Brad's Adam's apple bobs deliberately up and down for a moment; he glances down.
"I didn't... no, that's--" He stops for a minute, takes a breath, then looks back up at John. "I'd never felt like that before: so desperate, so needy. I'd never wanted anyone like that, never had anyone look at me the way you did."
John nods slowly, doesn't shift his gaze at all. His throat tightens.
"I just - I was so young, and it wasn't what I was used to doing. I was collecting data: doing experiments, trying to learn about people, about behaviour. I wanted to know patterns, see what was common across different experiences. But with you," he scoots forward, touches John's hip lightly. "I didn't care about any of that. I just wanted to know - you."
His voice falters a little bit, he glances down, then back up. "I just... I wanted you so badly."
John strokes his cheek with his thumb. "I wanted you just as much."
Brad leans forward, kisses John so gently that were his eyes closed he might not have felt it. John kisses back, slowly, carefully. He can see the vulnerability in Brad's eyes, wants to help it disappear.
"I think..." Brad's mouth is a whisper away from John's now; he can feel the words even more than he can hear them. "I think I got... scared."
"You were young."
"So were you."
They're quiet for a moment.
"I tried to delete you. I almost did."
John grins. "Maybe I'm undelete-able."
"I'm - sorry."
John's throat closes completely. He thought he'd been going along with all of this, benignly letting Sherlock as Brad say what he needed to say, but in those two words, everything comes rushing back: Brad's angry face, the way he pushed John away, said things so roughly, seemingly without any feeling left. John feels stricken, doesn't know what to do.
"I fucked up." Brad looks across the room for a minute as he speaks, then his eyes come back to John, rake over him, narrow with concern.
"John?" he says, concerned.
John nods at him, can't speak. He thought he could do this: let Sherlock (or Brad, or whomever) talk to him, let it out, go through whatever he needed to. John had thought he could do this and not be affected, not let everything float up around him and fog his mind with memories. But... god, it's like therapy: talking, sharing, everything you're supposed to do, and then one day, without any warning, everything comes crashing back down and guts you.
Yet, part of John had wanted this: entertained fantasies of Brad showing up, finding him and apologising, telling John he'd never meant to push him away in the first place. And, god, that part of him, that twenty-two year old part of him is fucking elated by this revelation. That part of him wants to go back in time, wants to bring them back more than seventeen years and have another night together: something unfettered by disguises, something untarnished by anything other than the two of them and the intense fucking feelings that had threatened to overwhelm him. That part of him wants to let it play out in another pathway of their lives. He wonders: was the pull between them as intense and real as John's memories recall? What would have happened to them? Would they have come together, fallen deeply in love and been a story that friends told to others with envious smiles and indulgent laughs? Or would it have run its course: burned brightly and fizzled out when the reality of their youth and differences rose up between them?
Though, John also wants to be here, to listen, to be whatever Sherlock needs him to be so he can get out whatever has been blocking him from letting John in.
And yet.
Everything Brad has said so far has all been in the past tense. It's all been about something from so long ago that Sherlock tried to delete and came rushing back to cloud everything.
And while John wants to give this to Sherlock, wants to help him let go of all of the baggage he's unknowingly carried all this time... John wants to move on.
Because everything Brad did in 1992, isn't it like what Sherlock has been doing these last months? Disguising himself, teasing John, pulling him in, then pushing him away again?
John sighs; he's lost in his head again. He blinks a few times, catches Sherlock's eyes on him, and immediately looks down. John realises that he's exhausted. He's not tired of Sherlock, not tired of their life together, not tired of being his friend, of running around with him on ridiculous cases... not any of that.
John is tired of not knowing.
He's tired of being held on such a tether by his own brutal desire and looking for signs that Sherlock might return it in kind. He's tired of trying to look for evidence, of trying to work out instead of being told, tired of having moments of insight and having Sherlock walk away in the middle of it every single time.
"John."
He glances at his hands, his left hand clenching and releasing unconsciously. He can't look back up at Sherlock. He doesn't know what to say, can't make himself form any useful words.
"John."
The voice is intense, full of passion. John's chest tightens.
"I have - things to tell you, things I have to say."
John looks up, keeps his face guarded; he presses his tongue tightly against his hard palate.
"Go on," he says quietly.
"I want you," Sherlock says. "I want you, but I... I didn't - know it. You saw me, saw through me so well. You saw who I was and you stayed. I pulled out my disguise kit not long after you moved in. I was curious to find out how you knew me, if you would no matter what."
John is quiet, listens. Sherlock isn't talking about the past anymore.
"It was intoxicating, exhilarating, trying out new disguises, voices, seeing how you reacted to me, the way your body language changed. You always angled toward me, looked me right in the eye, smiled so genuinely. I watched you with other people; you're genuine with them, too... but you were -- you are -- different with me. Always."
John nods. That's not surprising. Sherlock is unlike anyone he's ever known.
"I became obsessed. Every new experience with you gave me other ideas of characters, of behaviours I might try, professions I could emulate."
Sherlock stands, starts moving around the room as he speaks.
"I paid attention to how others reacted to me, of course, but it wasn't what was interesting to me. You, John. You were fascinating. I could never quite predict your behaviour, your conversation, but you were always drawn to me, always flirted back."
He stops. Turns to look at John for a long moment. "I know I said before that I wasn't flirting. I didn't realise it, didn't consciously know what I was doing, but I was. I know that now."
John turns to face Sherlock, pushes himself up straighter so his back is against the sofa cushion.
Sherlock whirls around, the ginger curls on his head flying out and then settling back down on his head. He walks quickly back to the sofa and sits down, angling his body toward John's. "Don't you see?" His voice is full of feeling.
"Don't you see, John? It's you. It's always you. I always know my thoughts, always know what I'm doing. But I didn't know what I was doing with you. I couldn't see it."
John's mind is whirling. What he wants, what he really wants, is for something to silence the world around them, for the electricity to die out so there will be silence and darkness around them. He wants to shut his eyes and pull Sherlock back against him, wants to lie down and kiss him deeply until their bodies slide together sweetly. But John was not a soldier for nothing. He knows how to control himself, even when his body thrums with longing.
He swallows, looks at Sherlock. "Why do you think you can see it now?"
"I don't - know."
"What changed, then?" John catches himself before he says Sherlock's name. Sherlock's been speaking in present tense, being unusually honest and open, but John's wary of doing anything to upset this precarious balance.
Sherlock looks thoughtful, scrubs his thumb across his bottom lip.
"I... remember things now, everything that happened in 1992. All of it."
"Maybe..." John stops for a minute, not really sure if he should continue. "Maybe now you - want to see it?"
Sherlock nods. "I don't like things that I don't understand."
John looks at him strangely, snorts. "Yes, you do. It's why you're positively gleeful when Lestrade calls you for a new case."
"Well, yes. That." He smiles at John. "But I don't like when I don't understand myself. I dislike feelings of uncertainty, of emotions that don't have a logical place."
"So you - feel something for me."
"I feel so much for you." Sherlock looks stunned. "Do you see how that's so out of place for me?" He stands and starts pacing again. "That first night, when we met... you marvelling at the things I deduced about you, you watching me at Lauriston Gardens like I was fascinating, even your ridiculous questions at the restaurant. It delighted me; I couldn't get enough. I was so drawn to you, and that - terrified me."
Sherlock steps on top of, then sits down on the coffee table, his knees just touching John's.
"This -- " he gestures between them, "this - thing between us. It scares me. I don't - know what to do about that."
John feels a rush of compassion; he's filled with empathy.
"I don't know, either." He smiles slowly at Sherlock, still carefully guarding his words. "But I think that's... alright."
Sherlock looks at him a moment, doesn't say anything.
"Just because we don't have an explanation," John pauses a minute, reaches out to cover Sherlock's knee with his hand, "doesn't mean it isn't worth it."
Sherlock glances down at John's hand, brings his hand to trace John's knuckles lightly. He looks up at John; his face is open, his eyes wide and vulnerable.
"You - want this?" Sherlock's voice is a whisper.
"Badly," John says.
"Even if--"
"Yes. Even then."
Sherlock swallows visibly. He isn't looking at John, focusing somewhere over John's shoulder. John can almost see his mind working, testing out thoughts like the moves of a chess player. Then, after a moment, Sherlock's eyes clear. He looks beautiful, determined.
Sherlock slides forward, his knee between John's thighs.
"Then come to bed," he says quietly. "Come to bed with me."
~*~
:: next part ::