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And So It Began	By : Mrs_M Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2625 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own (BBC) Sherlock, nor the characters and content therein. I do not profit from this work.

Chapter List
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13, September
The booming laugh of Carl Sandridge echoed off the buildings as John walked a very drunken Sherlock Holmes up Baker Street. After they had managed to peaceably avoid the grasping fingers of the fan-club gathered outside of The Queen’s Hat the doctor had all but begged Carl to give him a hand getting his flat-mate back home. Cal had obliged, “but I don’t promise I won’t take pictures” he giggled maliciously.
The whole walk home was mortifying for John, as Sherlock routinely tried to walk off toward various scenes of “obvious criminal activity”. First it had been a group of twenty-something men and women gathered together on a stoop (plotting a murder, no doubt, just look at their shoes) and John had to tug him away by the hand. Then, as they rounded the corner the detective had been convinced that the door at the end of the block was painted blue because the men living inside were selling stolen electronics equipment out of their attic. Eventually John grabbed Sherlock around the waist to keep him on the right path to 221B.
John had to admit that there was something very comforting about having his arm wrapped around the other man’s skinny frame. Embracing Sherlock in this way was a rare treat for a man who enjoyed expressing his emotions much more than the robotic detective. He shook his head from side to side, willing the thoughts away as the made their way home. The night’s conversations with Carl had undoubtedly burrowed their way deep into his thoughts and were making him think crazy things; but Carl had not been wrong, he and Sherlock were basically a couple ‘No, NO Watson, get it together’ he admonished himself as they rounded the last corner to Baker Street.
The whole time they walked Sherlock deduced what he could about Sandridge and most of it was accurate. Carl was more than willing to forgive the detective’s mistakes, claiming that being pissed must surely account for an increased margin of error.
“Oh yes, of course” Sherlock had agreed, “at least 12.3%, I think.”
This caused Carl to fall into a loud fit of guffaws which lasted until they finally reached the doorstep of 221B. John heaved a sigh of relief as he unlocked the door and shoved his friend inside, shutting it behind the drunken man with a decisive snick before turning back to his war-time buddy.
Lieutenant Sandridge’s grin stretched his face in a way that John thought must hurt him, it was so wide. His answering expression was drooped and sheepish, he felt ashamed. He was used to impressing his friends with Sherlock’s particular brand of snarky brilliance and tonight, he was sure he had made an entirely different impression.
“I had a great time tonight, John” the other doctor began. “It was really nice to see an old friend; I hope we get to do this again soon. Maybe next time you can meet Collin, I think you’d like him, he’s like your Sherlock in a lot of ways.”
“He’s not my Sherlock” John stopped him.
The other man leaned in for a quick hand shake and a hug whispering “If your face lights up like that every time you touch him then he’s your something alright”.
Carl let out another booming laugh at John’s confused expression before turning on his heel. “I’m going to catch a cab at the corner. Be well, Watson!” he called as his great legs took him away quick and quiet.
Turning the door handle once more the doctor made his way shakily up to their flat, only to find Sherlock face down on the sofa. He had his coat and scarf clutched in his right hand and his shoes deposited over the sofa arm, having kicked them off as soon as he landed no doubt. With a deep sigh John made his way over to the sitting area and took the coat and scarf from his friend, tossing them over the arm chair. He flipped the man over as best as he could and clutched his face in one hand, giving him a gentle shake.
John knew that if Sherlock slept on the couch this way he would hear no end to the complaining of cricked neck and sore back for days to come; he would not deal with that if he could help it. As Sherlock came back to consciousness a sleepy smile spread over his porcelain features and his eyes fluttered open to look into Johns.
“John!” he said, as excited as he could be for being mostly asleep, “I have the most wonderful news.”
“Yes you said that, why don’t you tell me about it tomorrow?”
“Yes fine, it can wait I will store it in the mind palace until tomorrow morning. Oh what is tomorrow?”
“Saturday” he replied.
“Oh, Saturdays. I don’t like Saturdays” Sherlock said sullenly.
“And why is that?”
“Because you always work on Saturdays.”
John was taken aback by those candid words. Of course, no one ever wanted to work Saturdays at the clinic if they could help it, but a doctor’s work was never done and John was always more than willing to take on the extra hours for a little more money.
“Yes, well someone has to pay Mrs. Hudson, you know” he smiled weakly at the drunken man.
“I could do that, you know, you don’t have to” Sherlock mumbled, beginning to drift off.
“How are you going to do that without money?” he asked quietly, not expecting an answer. “Up you get, let’s take you to bed”.
Forcing an arm under the detective’s back he pulled him up against him tightly, their faces coming dangerously close together as he attempted to lift Sherlock off the couch. For someone who never ate the man sure weighed a ton!
“You’ve got to give me a hand here, Sherlock” he sighed, hefting the man up to a sitting position. “Stand.”
Having come that close to Sherlock’s face had John’s heart beating a furious tattoo in his chest. Butterflies swam in his belly as he recalled the heat radiating off the other man, and the way his curls smelled of grass and trees. His face flushed hot and he shook his head to clear away the eager thoughts. Carl’s words must have gotten to him; he had no other explanation for feeling this way. No matter, Sherlock had managed to get to his feet and they were off to the bedroom at the end of the hall.
John had been in Sherlock’s bedroom a few times in the past but it never ceased to amaze him how untidy he was able to keep his room and still find anything. Stacks of medical journals and large books swayed precariously high, the floor groaning under the combined weight of everything stacked atop it. Every surface was covered in papers, experiments, microscopes (four in all) and slides. Papers hung from strings on the ceiling and the walls were plastered with photos, posters and news clippings. How could someone with such a highly organized mind keep such untidy quarters?
As he surveyed the detective’s shocking living conditions John had failed to notice that Sherlock was slowly undressing by the bed. His clothes falling haphazardly around his feet, the detective’s white skin and dusty brown hair took John by surprise when he turned around.
“Jeez, Sherlock leave your pants on!” he cried, shielding his eyes before the offending garment could hit the ground.
“Oh, fine.” Sherlock huffed, before falling onto the bed with a whumpf.
Removing his arm from his face John saw Sherlock had found his way onto the bed face-up. His chest and limbs caught in a sliver of moonlight trickling through the window. In this light the man’s alabaster skin all but shone. John’s breath caught in his through as he looked the other man over, long muscles stretched under bare skin alluding to the strenuous physical activities the man participated in without much food. He wasn’t built, the way the doctor had been during his military days, but rather just had no fat on him anywhere he could see. His dusky nipples stood in hard contrast to the pale expanse of skin around them, his slender torso leading down to a sprinkling of dark hair which disappeared into midnight blue silk pants. His legs were long without being unattractively skinny and his feet…John had always had a fascination with feet. Somehow he felt feet were ridiculous looking appendages which often looked skeletal or misplaced at the end of a leg but even Sherlock’s feet seemed perfectly fit to his body. John could not find a flaw on the man, except for a few small scars scattered around his ribs and belly. It was at that moment he realized he had been staring at his sleeping friend for a solid five minutes and began to beat a hasty retreat in embarrassment.
Before he could make it out of the room, however he heard a small gasping sound from the bed followed by Sherlock’s voice, small and weak: “Please, don’t go”.
John wasn’t sure he had heard his friend correctly, was the other man asleep and talking to himself? John couldn’t be sure, so he continued to step out.
“John, please?” Sherlock asked again from the darkness. There was a hint of some hidden truth in the detective’s plea that caused John to stop in his tracks.
“I’ll be right upstairs if you need anything. Shall I bring you some water or something before I head up?” John didn’t really want to leave Sherlock in this state; he had never seen the man so far from sober. Maybe it wouldn’t kill him to take up for the night in the corner chair, if he could clear it of its current dusty stacks of books.
“No, just lay down here, I’ll move over.” Sherlock said, scooting toward the far side of the bed, pressing his side against the wall there. “If something happens while I’m asleep I would like to have someone here who has their wits about them.”
There was no flaw in that argument to be sure, as a doctor he knew that there were risks to leaving an inebriated person alone. Why take the chance when he was right here to take care of the situation?
“Fine” John sighed, tugging his jumper off and folding it neatly before setting it at the foot of the bed. “Let me know if you need anything, alright? A glass of water or bit to eat wouldn’t kill you, I’d be glad to get something for you.”
“No, no, no” Sherlock mumbled “just come on and get over here already.”
Kicking his shoes and socks off, removing his belt and watch, John lowered himself into the bed and got as comfortable as he could. It struck him that this situation was entirely too odd; Sherlock had never asked him for help in the past unless they were working a case. Taking care of him was something John never thought he would have to do. The younger man had always seemed so self-sufficient.
Turning onto his side John began to drift off but was jolted awake again as he felt Sherlock curl closer behind him, pressing his slender frame against his back and draping an arm over his naked chest. John knew that he should pull away from the embrace, this was not the kind of thing platonic friends did. But the feeling of warm skin against his own, the comforting arm around him and the heat radiating off of the other man was not something he could bare to pull away from. Like he had told Carl earlier that evening, sometimes you just needed to someone to hold you while you slept.
“John?” he heard the detective mumble into his neck.
“Hmm?” he asked, shivering as hot breath brushed across his back.
“I have excellent news.”
“You’ve said that. What’s the news then?”
“I finally got her to go away.” John could hear Sherlock’s smile as he spoke.
“Got who to go away?” he wondered.
“Irene. No more Irene. No more.” Sherlock slurred with a chuckle.
“Why would you do that?” John asked, genuinely interested now. He waited for a reply in the darkness for a long moment before deciding that Sherlock must finally be asleep.
Settling further into the pillow John matched his breathing to the steady rhythm of the other man and soon found he was teetering on the edge of sleep. His thoughts swirling into a haze of dreams he finally succumbed to the alcohol and fatigue of his week. Just before he lost his mind to sleep John heard Sherlock mumble into his back again but he was too far gone to be sure of what the other man said.
“Because she’s not you” he thought he heard, but he couldn’t be sure.
Moments later he was sleeping, warmed by the man pressed against him and completely content. That night he slept better than he had in years.
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And So It Began