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A Bit Not Good	By : VulpineBeesKnees Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2924 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: We do not own or make any profit on BBC's Sherlock or any of their characters. It's all for fun.

Chapter List
- 19
- 20
Days came and went with no change. Sherlock poured over evidence and badgered Lestrade's team, who did not have the more amiable DI to keep tensions under control due to his injuries. John kept the peace between themselves and the precinct, and insisted periodically that the detective eat something. He didn’t have to ask Sherlock to sleep though, the moment John began showing exhaustion he would put away whatever they had been working on, or, if they were at the morgue or the lab or the precinct, insist that they were going home. John was pretty sure he lie awake most of the time, his mind too busy to actually sleep, but at least he was getting some sort of rest.
Unfortunately there seemed to be no more clues. On the other hand, there had been no more attacks either. John tried to find this as a good thing, maybe Moriarty had grown bored of whatever game he’d been playing. Maybe it was really over. Sherlock was not quite so optimistic. At least the rush of the case had seemed to be enough to keep Sherlock’s mind busy.
The morning of the fourth day since the last attacks John rolled over to find Sherlock still asleep, it was a rare sight. Their relationship, or lack thereof, had not changed since Sherlock’s comment at the hospital. Everything had been revolving around the stagnant case, and John couldn’t help but wonder (after Sherlock spent almost two days staring at the same photos) if Sherlock wasn’t using the case a bit. It didn’t matter really, John had sort of been glad for it. He was too attached to lose the little physical relationship they had, keeping things status quo was safe. Part of him knew it was selfish, but he didn’t care.
But as John lie beside the detective, he had to admit to himself, he wanted more. Sherlock was laying on his back, his eyes peacefully closed, one arm wrapped around John’s shoulders and back, the other stretched across his own torso to grab at the fabric of John’s shirt. The blonde lay on his side, legs slightly intertwined, one arm stretched across Sherlock’s chest, his head neatly fit against the taller man’s shoulder.
Nervously, John wriggled closer, nuzzling his nose in the space where the detectives neck met his collar bone. Closing his eyes, he wondered how he had ever not been comfortable like this, wrapped up in the pale lanky body sprawled out before him. After a moment he pulled back and adjusted himself so he could prop his head up on Sherlock’s shoulder, his chin pressing into the other softly.
“Sherlock,” he started, “Sherlock.” the hand stretched across his torso began tracing small shapes on Sherlock’s forearm. “We have to get up.”
"No..." Came the soft and childish reply. He felt so wrapped up in John's warmth, like the horrors of the past week were just a nightmare. He had started waking with the nuzzling and the lazy circles being drawn on his skin were threatening to put him back. "Just ten more minutes? Just to lay here? It's cold out there..."
He turned his head a bit and opened his green eyes to take on the blue of his flatmate's. He’d been so focused on the case lately that he hadn't really stopped to just look at him in a while. In that moment he wa glad because the man was more beautiful than he remembered, all tousled hair and drowsy eyes. His own smile gently split his face as he teasingly reached up and pulled John back down to his chest.
Laughing, John conceded. “Fine. Ten minutes, but that’s it.” John thought of the small box hidden at the back of his own closet fondly. Continuing to let his fingers dance across the skin of Sherlock’s arm he went on. “We have a lot to do today, no falling back asleep.” Of course Sherlock would choose this day to want to actually sleep and stay wrapped up in each other.
"A lot to do?" He frowned softly. "What do we have to do today other than grocery shopping and staring at photographs?" He closed his eyes and nuzzled back into John's side. "Besides, I never want to sleep in.. Shouldn't you indulge this behavior?"
“You’re right, I should but I can’t today.” John sat up a little again, staring at the detective incredulously. Did he really not know? “We have to clean up the flat, it’s a right mess. God knows everyone else isn’t going to want to stare at crime scene photos all night And everyone will be expecting a dinner of sorts, I mean I can buy some of it, but I’m still going to have to cook.”
John realized Sherlock’s time away had made certain things unnecessary, but he looked down at the detective, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he waited for all the pieces to drop into place. “Mrs. Hudson said she has desert’s covered though so that helps.”
"Everyone... Dinner... John what on earth are you talking about? Why would-" he was cut off as the thought struck him and he replayed all the conversations he'd ignored in favor of focusing on the case.
"Today is Decmeber the 24th... It's Christmas Eve... And I've forgotten..." He felt like an idiot, much like when John used to incessantly tease him about not knowing that the earth went 'round the sun. He screwed his eyes up in frustration for a moment before opening them again and looking up at John.
"Happy Christmas Doctor Watson." He said with a smile.
The smile that had been biting back finally broke through. “Yes, Happy Christmas Sherlock.” Then dropping his head again he relaxed back against Sherlock. “So ten minutes, and then we have lots to do.” He wasn’t particularly upset that Sherlock had forgotten, in fact he had almost expected it. Any time the topic had been brought up he’d responded with the most noncommutative noises imaginable, as he was still totally absorbed in the work.
“Everyone should be coming around by five or so. Should give up plenty of time to get things ready.”
Sherlock enjoyed the time he'd been given to stay in the warmth of John's embrace, but soon enough, they were forced to get up and he grabbed some clothing, beating John to the shower. He dressed in the black jeans John liked so much and a black and purple plaid shirt, and ran his fingers through his wet ginger hair. Some of the curl was coming back, and John seemed to like it.
With a smile, he relinquished the shower to his flatmate and scampered off to get ready. He'd had a gift he wanted to give John since he'd come home, and finding out that today was Christmas Eve had spurred him into action. Just before John was done he made tea, and had a steaming cup waiting for him when the doctor walked into the sitting room.
"If you'll sit I have a gift for you..." He was sitting on one end of the couch, looking more relaxed than he felt.
Hair still wet from the shower John looked around, a little bemused, before grabbing the tea and making his way to sit on the sofa. “How. . . . You didn’t know it was Christmas till this morning?” All the same he sat in the corner of the sofa so he was facing Sherlock. He had his own present for Sherlock, but it could wait for the moment.
"It's something I've been wanting to give you since I came back, but it never seemed like the right time but now is pretty good I'd say." He smiled and stood to retrieve his violin.
"Now," he said, coming back In front of the couch, tuning the strings with deft fingers, "Keep your eyes focused on me... Can you do that for me John?" The echo of the words from the past made his stomach clench, but he closed his eyes and and raised the violin to his shoulder. John’s breath caught in his chest and drawing his bottom lip between his teeth he nodded.
The detective took a deep breath and let the bow slide across the strings in a sad lonely opening note. And then the music began, sounding sad and mournful with harsh blasts every now and then. It reflected the way their lives were before they met, meaningless and without a real motive for being. Then, it picked up. Quick and chaotic, and a whirlwind of notes all in a major key. It was longer than the first, and as he played, he began twirling and winding around the flat, moving between the furniture as they had often moved through London.
Suddenly, he took a step up onto one of the chair’s, one foot propped up on the arm as the music took on a whole new somber approach. It was heart wrenching. Minor notes and slow macabre flats began Sherlock’s downward spiral as Moriarty had begun turning the world against him. Looking up he met John’s eyes, and all the feelings he’d had running through his body, all the thoughts and fears he’d felt up on the roof of Bart’s. Now that they were closer, he knew John could feel all of it radiating from his body as well as his violin. A long swell brought him jumping down from the chair, and as soon as his feet hit the ground short staccatos in a sneaky melody began pouring from his violin as he began twirling around the room again, bent low as if he were slipping from shadow to shadow. In breaks from the staccatos, more lonely swells that came closer together towards the end, marking his time away from John.
Then, in the final movement of the composition, soft comforting notes poured from the instrument like liquid silk, almost a lullaby in its sweetness. His homecoming, how he felt being with John now, and how they had come to help each other through all of their problems. He rocked back and forth as he played, his chest and torso swaying to the rhythm, the violin gently cradled in his arms.
When the last note faded, he let the violin gracefully lower from his shoulder and opened his eyes once more, catching Johns with his gaze. He was frozen to his spot on the sofa, his lip trembling dangerously.
"On all the nights when I was frightened, or lonely, I composed this song for you, played the violin in my mind until I had it memorized so that I could play it for you when I came home." He smiled nervously and felt like fidgeting, but forced himself to stand still, waiting for John's reaction.
The blonde had sat awestruck throughout the entire performance, and by the end one hand had found its way to his jaw, covering his mouth, holding back his emotions. As Sherlock explained where the song had come from a few tears finally slipped and slowly John stood to his feet. He moved meticulously across the room, stopping in front of Sherlock to gently take the violin and bow from his hands and set them aside, before pulling the taller man into a heartfelt embrace. One arm wrapped tight over his shoulders, his fingers finding purchase at the collar of his shirt, and the other arm around his thin chest.
Letting out a shaky breath John tried to compose himself himself before letting go, his forehead pressed against the others neck softly, breathing everything that was Sherlock, in. As he pulled away he surreptitiously wiped away a few stray tears before smiling up at Sherlock, and choking out an emotional, “Thank you.”
After a moment John bit at the inside of his lip. “I have something for you too. Just stay here.” He hesitated for a moment, like he might say something else, before turning away and hurrying up the stairs to his room. Going straight for the closet, which only held his now unused jumpers, he retrieved the small memory box. It was a plain white box with a thin layer of dust. John hadn’t opened it in two years. He wiped off the top as he made his way back down stairs, not quite as quickly as he had ascended them.
When he was back in the sitting room he gave Sherlock a nervous, almost sad smile as he walked slowly across the room. He wanted Sherlock to see everything inside the box, but he wasn’t sure how the detective would take it. Carefully he set the box on the writing desk and stood back to lean on the arm of the sofa, gesturing for Sherlock to take a look.
Sherlock, who had remained standing, moved to the writing desk and took a seat at the chair, motioning for John to come over closer. Without waiting to see if John would follow his request, his curiosity got the better of him, and he let his slender fingers slip the top off the dusty box.
What he found inside made his throat tighten up and his hands shake. There nestled very neatly inside the box were newspaper clippings, folded papers, a magnet, a small stuffed dog that he deducted was supposed to be a black poodle among other small things.
Lifting some of the newspaper clippings, he found a number of articles about the people who had believed him to be alive and good from the very beginning. There was a photo of a spray painted silhouette of what seemed to be his profile, with the words “I believe in Sherlock” painted above and below it. Some of the folded papers were letters from other people who believed in him, written to John showing their support, and boasting encouragement for him to hang in there. The detective felt his eyes prickling as he picked up the poodle and magnet with the sillouete Sherlock recognized from one of John’s infernal television shows, Spock, with an eyebrow raised at the smaller man.
John had moved so he was standing at the side of the desk. When the items in question were raised John choked out a laugh, one hand wrapped around the back of his neck nervously as he shrugged.
“Uhm. . Just things. . . Sometimes, especially at first, if I found things that reminded me of you I’d pick them up.” He gestured towards the box. “All that’s just from the first year you were gone. Not everyone was horrible, and I managed. I just. . . You needed to know that I was okay. I wanted you back, but I was never without support.”
Eyes downcast, John stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “There’s one more letter in there. On the very bottom. . . .It-It’s for you.” He had never felt more nervous in his life, and as the detective slid the letter out from under everything else John moved to sit on the sofa. His body was shaking slightly and he couldn’t stand and watch Sherlock read that. John himself hadn’t read it since the day he’d put it in the box.
Sherlock unfolded the letter almost reverently and began to read. By the second time he’d read it, his hands were shaking, causing the paper to quiver with his emotion. Laying it down, he smoothed it out and read it one more time before looking up at John. His eyes were glassy and a little red as they saw the other man sitting on the couch, phrases from the letter repeating in his mind.
I was supposed to say goodbye then, but I didn’t.
He was on his feet.
I suppose if you don’t come back, one day I’ll have admit you may be gone. But I’m not saying goodbye. I won’t do it.
He made his way around the couch.
I’ll try not to complain when you leave them next to the leftovers. I really will.
He stopped in front of John, looking down and capturing the man with his gaze.
And Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry for everything I said before I left you that day. You are not a machine, you are brilliant and human and the most wonderful person I have ever known. I just want to be able to tell you that.
He was unable to keep his feet and fell to his knees, his hips and torso fitting neatly into the space between the doctor’s legs.
Come home soon.
Yours always
Doctor John Hamish Watson
He was leaning forward then, wrapping his arms around the man, his head resting on the other's chest and hugging him tight. He had known how much John had been hurt. He’d heard it from almost everyone but the man himself, and now John was letting Sherlock in. The doctor was trusting him enough to take this raw and broken part of himself, and give it to the one person that was probably just as broken as he was.
The last part had given him hope. Although he hadn’t meant it any way but platonically at the time, John’s subconscious had known that there was no way either of them could ever belong to anyone else. They fit together too perfectly. As he burrowed his face deeper into John’s stomach, breathing in the scent of him, his mind was occupied by only two words. Mine. Always.
The small amount of will that was keeping John from breaking down disappeared as Sherlock pressed against him. John’s forehead dropped to the back of Sherlock's wavy hair, his arms wrapped tightly against the thin man's shoulders as silent tears slipped through. It had been the hardest thing for John to give up, that little wall that had still been between him and Sherlock. His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest, but he couldn’t let go. He wanted to say something, anything to convey all of the emotions, but there was nothing to say. He'd said everything he needed to just by handing Sherlock the last piece of himself he'd never intended to give up. Instead, he just pulled Sherlock against himself, letting his eyes fall closed and enjoyed the moment.
Once he felt he as though he could speak normally he pulled his body back up, one hand resting at the base of Sherlock’s neck, carding through the short wavy hair there. “So. . . Happy Christmas.” He smiled down at the ginger head still pressed against him. He had worried that his giftwould be too heavy and intimate, but obviously it seemed to have gone over well. Or at least as well as it could have gone.
John felt a familiar tug in his stomach as his fingers combed through the soft hair at the base of Sherlock’s neck, maybe when this case was over they could talk about their relationship, or lack thereof. He still wasn’t very sure what Sherlock wanted, but John knew he wanted something more. He wanted something... commitment?
“I didn’t mean to upset you, I. . . I promised myself I’d give it to you if I had the chance. . . . So much for avoiding sentiment huh?” John tried to joke, he’d never seen Sherlock so open. It was hard to see how upset he’d made Sherlock, but there was something about it he liked. Sherlock had never been this open with anyone as far as John knew, and he loved that Sherlock trusted him this much to let his defenses down. It gave John his own hope.
“No... no...” he muttered into John’s stomach before pulling back so that he could look up into his eyes. “John as I’ve told you before, I thought about the words you said to me, that last night before... well before all of this. You were right. I was a machine, sentiment doesn’t make you weak. It makes you vulnerable yes, but it’s not hard to see that two is greater than one...” He took John’s hand, sliding it from the back of his neck so that it was pressed against his cheek and leaned into it.
Rubbing his thumb in soft circles against Sherlock’s cheekbone Johns brow furrowed as he looked down at him, contemplating. "That's never something I thought I'd ever hear you say." Then after a few moments of silence his face relaxed, a soft warm smile spreading across his features. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson against the world."
They stayed like that for a moment, Sherlock revelling in the thought that things had been changing for them, and John might be willing to accept it. After he knew they could wait no more, he whisked the man to his feet, and got them ready to go shopping to feed the entire group that evening.
Shopping was less of an anxiety for Sherlock this time. Although he still stuck close to John, they laughed and talked as they perused the aisles for the groceries. Once bought, they walked home, bags in tow, and Sherlock helped John put everything in order. While trying to help him cook though, the detective burned his hand, and the doctor forced him to sit at the bar with an ice cube and a childish pout.
He gave up the pouting however as he watched John flutter through the kitchen making all the normal Christmas foods. He hummed to himself softly in appreciation. How he had ever left the comfort of this place he’d never know. Never had a location he’d slept been considered anything more than just that, but no, 221B Baker Street at some point had become home.
While the turkey they’d bought was cooking, he and John set in on the presents that John had luckily had the forethought to buy from both of them. Sherlock wrapped while John tied the bows, and the detective couldn’t help but laugh. The packages were wrapped very meticulously, sharp corners and straight edges, while the bows were bubbly and homey. They were perfect.
Like us.
He was helping John judge whether the turkey was done or not when the doorbell rang at half five. He offered to get the door and smiled when he found Molly and her tall handsome date standing at the door.
“Molly dear.” he said leaning forward to kiss her cheek. He then turned and shook the hand of the stranger. “You must be Derek, we’ve heard good things about you.” Her date, who seemed to be just as meek as she was, but with a strong handshake blushed and smiled at Molly.
RN at the hospital. Lives alone, parents out of the picture. Long string of unsuccessful and heartbreaking relationships. He’s admired her from afar for two years now. Shy, but brave and straightforward. They’ll be happy.
“John is upstairs working on the turkey, let me take your bags, I’ll put the presents away for you.” He took them and ushered the two through the door. They entered the kitchen to say hello to John as Sherlock put the bags by the writing table. From the hall closet, he found the tree they’d used that first Christmas so long ago, and pulled it down. He couldn’t imagine why John hadn’t set it up yet.
John was just being introduced to Molly's date when he saw Sherlock lugging the small tree out into the sitting room. Molly's eyes widened as her eyes followed the detective across the room.
"Is he...?" She sounded utterly amazed as she turned back to look at John.
Johns eyes didn’t leave Sherlock as he nodded, his voice breathy and impressed. "Decorating.. Yeah." Looking back to Molly with an almost shy smile.
"I'm so glad things are working out between you two." She leaned into her date, interlocking their fingers as her eyes drifted between the two other men.
He didn’t bother arguing, because in all honesty he wasn't sure there was anything to argue against. Turning to hide the embarrassed flush that was creeping into his cheeks, he turned off the oven and pulled out the finished turkey. Then turning back, stripping himself of the hot pads and leaving them on the counter. "Come on, we can't leave Sherlock to decorate alone. Could be disastrous..."
John hurried over to help, resting his hand in the small of Sherlock’s back as he walked up. None of the decorations had been brought out in years, John hadn’t seen the point when he was alone. Soon the four of them were busy decorating the sitting room. Slowly the rest of the party began showing up. Mrs. Hudson had made her way up when she heard John turn on holiday music. Giving both boys a kiss on the cheek, she made her way to take over in the kitchen. Lestrade and Mycroft showed up together, the detectives arm still bandaged and in a sling. The last to arrive, much to John’s surprise, was Harry.
John hadn't been expecting her to show up, and when he opened the door he stopped for a moment. She stood on the stoop apprehensively, a long gift bag dangling from one hand. Pulling her into a hug John murmured her name softly. He stood back to hold her out at arms length.
"You look amazing. I-... I'm so glad you're here."
Ushering her upstairs John walked around, introducing her to everyone proudly. John almost missed the look shared between her and Sherlock. Almost.
Sherlock had known when that last knock on the door came that it was John’s sister. He had snuck her number from John’s phone while he’d been busy cooking and had slipped off to the bathroom to call her. He had suspected from the beginning that Harry had been a big part of keeping John alive while he had been gone. Now that he knew the specifics, he knew it was much more than that. He had known John would be happy to see her, but he had selfish reasons for inviting her as well.
It was about then that Mrs. Hudson called John into the kitchen to help her set the table. He paused in the doorway to take everything in. Molly and Lestrade were sitting on the couch, their heads bowed low as they chatted away. Mycroft and Derek stood to the side of the sofa, not really talking, seemingly listening to the excited conversation taking place between the other two. Sherlock had taken up the armchair opposite Harry, he had pulled his violin from its case. Most likely showing off.
As John saw all the important people in their lives comfortable and happy he smiled, one thought on his mind as Mrs. Hudson called him again.This is our family.
Sherlock was plucking the strings quietly and lovingly as Harry sipped on the egg nogg she’d retrieved from John. Sherlock cocked his head to the side as he looked at her, really taking in how much she looked like him. They both had the warm round faces, and those bright blue eyes. He smiled softly at her and tuned one of the strings needlessly.
“Thank you for coming.” his voice was so soft he was sure she was the only one that heard it.
“How could I resist meeting the man my baby brother has fallen in love with?” Her voice was just as quiet as his, eyes smiling over her cup at him. Sherlock plinked a flat note, clearly not expecting that.
“How did you-”
“How could I not?” She cut him off, “He was so hurt when you left, but he kept hope. I’ve never seen him act like that for anyone... you had to be something different...”

“I would assume since you-”
“What since I like women I’d accept you two?” She cut him off again, and Sherlock was surprised. He’d done this to people many times before, but never had it been done to him. She smiled wider at him, “You hurt my brother again and we’ll have issues, but you make him as happy as I know you can... I’ll be happy to call you my brother too.”
Sherlock felt his throat closing up at her words and had to blink before looking away. “I don’t intend to let anything bad happen to him ever again. Not as long as it’s within my power.”
“Good.”
Behind them Molly and Lestrade were whispering to each other, their heads pressed close together as they schemed.
“You know they’re totally denying how they really feel...” Molly said softly.
“Bloody hell, we’ve all known that since before he took a swan dive off of Barts.” Lestrade replied with a snort.
“They’ll never say anything themselves.” she continued with a side look at the Detective Inspector, “We should... help them along, I found some mistletoe in one of those decoration boxes.”
Greg leaned closer, “What do we do?”
A few moments later, Greg had led Derek over to where Sherlock was sitting conversing politely with Harry. “Sherlock, I was just telling Derek about that experiment you did on the coagulation of saliva after death, he seemed really interested.”Sherlock, eyes bright, dove headfirst into explaining the mechanics and his findings.
Molly snuck a chair over to the doorway into the kitchen, and stepped up, taping the mistletoe to the jamb. As quickly and quietly as she could, she replaced the chair and slipped back into her seat on the couch, a huge smile splitting her face.

----------------------
The small kitchen table was crowded with odd chairs to accommodate the whole group. They were elbow to elbow but it was comfortable, and they chattered easily. After the table had quieted down, and everyone had filled their plates Mycroft coughed pointedly, getting everyone's attention.
"We had planned on announcing this today, but I'm sure now most of you know." He shared a small smile with Lestrade and placed his hand over Lestrade’s good one, before continuing. "In case there's any question,Greg and I are together, have been for a time now." Giving everyone a short nod he picked up his fork and began eating.
“Really Mycroft, do you have to ruin the mood by making Christmas all about you ?” His voice was snarky, and he would never tell that his stomach twisted with delight. Mycroft, as insufferable as he was, deserved to be happy.
"We'll I think that's lovely," Mrs. Hudson piped up, "it's wonderful seeing you all so happy." She gazed around the table adoringly at her patchwork adopted family.
The rest of the dinner was light and jovial. Though the declaration from Mycroft hadn't been much of a surprise it sparked a question in John’s mind again. He wondered, as he watched Sherlock actually socializing and happier than he'd ever seen him, could they have that? John had accepted that he had feelings for Sherlock, but publicly he'd held on to the idea that he was straight. It was something that defined him, and a part of him wasn't sure how to let go of that.
Mrs. Hudson hustled everyone into the living room with the promise they’d all be on dish duty later, because she wasn’t their housekeeper. Setting everyone around the room, they passed out presents, which were opened with many thanks and smiles. Finally Mrs. Hudson with the help of Sherlock passed out deserts to everyone along with the eggnog that Lestrade had spiked at some point during the night. Harry had a cup of cider instead, and they all sat around the fire, just generally enjoying themselves.
Molly and Lestrade had taken the couch again, and she elbowed him lightly as John went to add another log. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, blocking part of it with his body, and she gave the DI a look that said, ‘Green light! Go go go!’
“John, since you’re up, would you mind getting me another cup of eggnog?” His smile was wide as he made the request.
" Last I checked it was your arm in a sling. Pretty sure your legs work fine." He shot Greg a look that was supposed to be a glare, but failed. Shaking his head and chuckling he finished with the fire and went to fetch more eggnog from the kitchen.
"Anyone else?" He paused to ask, one hand on the door jamb glancing back at the group. His brow furrowed as he saw everyone watching him expectantly. "What?" He asked incredulously, turning to stare at the lot.
A few pairs of eyes were jumping between John and Sherlock, and then up above their heads. After a moment, frowning softly, he looked around to see what the fuss was about. Seeing the small plastic mistletoe taped meticulously above Sherlock’s head Johns mouth went dry. His eyes fell to Sherlock's as his stomach twisted in knots.
"We'll go on." Molly said leaning forward a little expectantly. Everyone else almost nodded in unison.
"I don't think..." Sherlock started, seeing the almost frightened look on John's face at the prospect. This wasn't the right time.
"God damnit man just kiss my brother already!!!" Came Harry's adamant response. Sherlock knew that the others wouldn't budge on this, and with a worried look turned to John. In that moment he knew he had to put the man at ease or everything he'd been working for would be for not. Pull away and he’d risk John getting the impression he wasn’t interested, move too quickly and he could push him away.
Swallowing hard, he lifted his hands to John's cheeks , much like he had at the second crime scene. His thumbs came up and brushed against the smaller man's cheeks attempting to soothe his nerves. His eyes flickered back and forth in an almost apology as he leaned forward, simultaneously tilting John's head back.
When their lips met, Sherlock felt every hair on his body stand on end with an electric current that made his entire body shudder. One hand slipped around the back of the blonde's head to cradle it, the other sliding down to his waist to pull him closer. The taste of Johns lips awoke something animalistic and feral inside of him, so much so he was almost afraid for John's reaction.
John had stood frozen to the spot as Sherlock leaned in his body flooded with innate fear, but as he felt their bodies pressed together it all melted away. He couldn't hear the cat calls and awes pouring from the small audience. One hand ran up the length of Sherlock's arm to rest at the base of his neck, keeping them locked together. The other found hold on the thin hip pressed against him.
Lost in the moment his lips moved against Sherlock's encouragingly. All John could focus on was the man pressed closely to him, his fingers tangled loosely in the hair at the base of Sherlock's neck. He knew he'd had reason to worry before, but suddenly he couldn't think of a single excuse to turn away.
Sherlock’s lips moved against John's as well, the feeling of the man responding made him want to devour the blonde whole. However he knew things were getting out of hand, and he forced himself to pull back slowly. The hand on John’s neck coming back to rest on his cheek. Sherlock stroked it soothingly with his thumb as he smiled down at his doctor.
The hoots and hollers came back into focus and he turned, his arm still around the man's hips. He held a hand up, smiling appreciatively , trying to calm them down. He turned back to John an obviously dopey grin crossing his face, a handsome but unexpected look for the detective.
John attempted to return the reaction, but as he turned to face everyone the fear crept back in. He could feel his heart beating in his throat as his chest rose and fell shakily. The room spun dangerously below his feet as he looked back to Sherlock, mouthing wordlessly.
"I'm sorry," he finally croaked out, avoiding the eyes of everyone else in the room. "I just..." Raising a hand to his face John ran a finger along his bottom lip, trying to register what had just happened. "I need air."
He held Sherlocks penetrating gaze for a moment more before ripping his jacket from the hook and stealing from the room without a second look back at the now silent group. A moment later he was breathing heavily against the wall at the base of the stairs running his hands through his hair painfully before he could even think straight.
Sherlock turned, throwing a glare at the group, letting them know he fully blamed them for pressuring the two before running after the doctor.
"John, God John wait!" The doctor was at the door and he all but ran down the steps. When he reached the bottom, he grabbed the man's wrist, effectively stopping him from leaving.
"Please don't..." He said softly, his voice wavering with emotion. This was a moment that had kept him up at night. How had he been so selfish? He'd know John wasn't ready, he'd fucking known!
"Don't leave me John, I'm sorry. I know that was a bit not good but -"
Pulling his wrist from Sherlocks grasp John pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to focus, to understand. He had wanted this, he known he'd wanted this.
" Yeah... a bit not good...” He choked out in a mirthless laugh. Shaking his head he continued softly. “ I'm not leaving ... I just.."
Letting his hands fall away he looked up at Sherlock, his eyes pleading for him to let him leave.
"I'll be back. I just need to breath, I need to think."
John stepped closer and his hand reached up, his thumb running softly along the detectives prominent cheekbone and back to trace his jaw. Sherlock leaned his face into that hand, wanting to reach up and hold it, but he couldn't bear to have him pull away again. He felt his hands trembling. Things had been going so well. He knew the best thing to do was let him go. But he didn't want to. He was afraid to.
"I'm sorry too," he breathed softly before opening the door from behind him and walking out into the cold december night.
Sherlock watched him go, feeling more than just the loss of the warmth on his face. Returning upstairs, everyone tried to talk to him about what had happened, but he just raised his hand, showing that he didn’t want to talk. Sitting in his chair, he steepled his fingers and barely registering the fact that dishes were being done and goodbyes were being made. Molly leaned down to kiss his cheek, and Lestrade clapped him on the back. Harry placed a hand on the shoulder and leaned down to whisper to him.
“Don’t worry dear, he’s probably having a pint to clear his head, he’ll come around. Give him a bit.” So Sherlock did. He gave him three hours when he finally got so desperate he couldn’t stand it. plucking his phone from his pocket, he sent a quick text.
Starting to worry about you - SH
A few breaths after he sent it, his phone rang. Looking down, he saw it was John, but it wasn’t just a phone call, John was sending a request for a video call. He answered to a totally black screen.
“John?” he called softly. But what he heard chilled him to the bone. A high pitched giddy voice that he didn’t recognize, breathy into the speaker.
“Doctor Watson can’t come to the phone right now.”
- 19
- 20
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A Bit Not Good