Chapter Text
A silhouette in a doorway. That’s how it had started. Light from the hallway pouring around wild curls, the swaying fabric of a silk dressing gown. The room had been icy, a cold snap hitting London in mid spring, as often happened. He sat up when he heard the footsteps on the stairs, wondered if he was about to be dragged out into the night to watch Sherlock be clever, not that he ever minded that.
He was half out of the bed, ready to pull on crumpled jeans and a dirty jumper, when the silhouette slipped into the room and closed the door. The room was pitch black. His eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the loss of the light from the doorway when he felt the dip of the mattress, the rustle of the sheets. His breath caught in his lungs.
“Sher...are you okay? What are you doing?” His voice came out in a broken whisper, catching on every syllable. Wanting. Wanting this, him, for so long. All the times they might have, could have, but now, on a completely unremarkable night. Rain thrummed against the window. A streetlight popped, John heard the sizzle of the bulb burning. Sherlock slid toward him, nothing but heat and muffled sounds.
They’d had a terrible week. Two murders of small children, which had disturbed them both. Mrs Hudson had taken a fall and was in hospital. And two days before, John had been hit over the head by a suspect during a chase and been unconscious for several minutes. He had a slight concussion, but nothing more serious than that. Sherlock had fussed over him at first, bringing him tea until there were four cups undrunk sitting on his bedside table, but as everything with Sherlock, his concern burned brightly and briefly. He got bored and left John alone.
Now here he was in John’s bed, under the same blankets. Knees inches, centimeters, apart. John could hear him breathing.
“Just...shhhhh. I want to stay here. Can I? Can I stay here, John?” So unsure, so easily hurt. John could never say no to him, not ever really, and not when he sounded like this. Something was wrong.
“Are you alright? What happened?” His hand hovered over Sherlock’s curled form, instinct being to touch him, stroke his back, soothe him. He retracted, clenching it to the top of the blankets.
“Nothing happened. Just go back to sleep. Please?” Moonlight sifted down over his face, one eye illuminated. He looked tired and frightened.
He wouldn’t tell John anything. Alright. Just another level of strangeness in this flat, in this life. Fine. John swallowed all his confusion down, working hard against the ache in his chest telling him to reach out and pull Sherlock to him, breathe in his body heat and take his fear away.
“Goodnight, Sherlock.”
“Goodnight, John.”
When John woke in the morning, of course, Sherlock was pressed to his side, his nose against John’s rib cage, arm slung low over his belly and their legs twisted together. Somehow, John had always known this is how Sherlock would sleep in bed with another person. With him. Which was something he thought about far too often.
He lay there, Sherlock breathing warm and even against his shirt, and wondered how it would be to wake up like this every morning. Sherlock’s hair soft against his arm as he drifted sleepy fingers across his shoulders and up onto his neck. He would not have dared to touch Sherlock this way yesterday, but there was a line that had been crossed, a defence breached. He allowed his hand to move down, stopping when he reached the gentle curve of the small of his back.
Sherlock made a snuffling noise, sweet and unmeasured. He nuzzled against John’s ribcage, murmuring unintelligibly. John stilled his hand. He didn’t want to wake him, not yet. He needed more of this, of Sherlock’s soft sounds and warm body. It was unlikely to happen again, whatever spell had overtaken him last night.
Instead of waking, Sherlock rolled more tightly towards him. John turned, his knee slotting in between Sherlock’s thighs, his arms encircling him snugly. Sherlock’s face rubbed against his chest and he settled again. He couldn’t believe how good this felt. It was peace. Complete peace. All their demons quieted.
John let himself fall back asleep.
It was dreamless and sound sleep. They lay there most of the morning.
Eventually, Sherlock stirred and stretched, and John slowly woke up. He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked steadily back. Was there something to be embarrassed about? The question was in both their eyes. Then John smiled a bit, and Sherlock did too, and that was the end of it. It felt like a natural extension of their closeness, their dependence on each other.
They got up and went about their day. John made eggs and toast and coffee. He blogged. Sherlock fidgeted and complained, and they got in a row over something stupid that they couldn’t even remember later. Late in the afternoon, Lestrade phoned with a case, and they went. John had Chinese takeaway at 11pm while Sherlock sipped his tea.
That night, John came to Sherlock’s room. He stood in the doorway until Sherlock beckoned him in. He slipped into the sheets, more expensive and soft than his own, and there was no pretense this time. Sherlock held an arm out, and John curled to him as if they’d done this a million times. Sherlock’s hand settled on his waist, and he liked the weight and the heat against his skin. Sherlock’s breath was hot against his forehead, and he could hear his heart thumping right against his ear. He fell asleep more quickly than he had in decades, waking ten hours later flat on his back with Sherlock’s head on his stomach, a circle of saliva on his tee shirt from Sherlock’s open mouth.
That became their habit. They never talked about it; never questioned it. But they never slept alone again. There was such a comfort in that physical closeness, such a soul-deep feeling of calm, there was no letting go of that. It was akin to therapy; quieting Sherlock’s mind and John’s restless spirit. John would start getting antsy in the evenings, wanting to feel the weight of Sherlock’s head on him, their limbs tangled together. Sometimes he couldn’t wait, and he would announce he was off to bed at a ridiculously early hour. Sherlock always took the hint, slinking into the room fifteen minutes behind John, and coiling his long body around him with a contented sigh.
This wasn’t typical behaviour for flatmates, for friends, and John knew that. He was relatively certain Sherlock did, too. But John, he had always wanted so much more, so much Sherlock wasn’t capable of giving, and this was good. It was fulfilling, even without kissing, or sex, or any kind of romantic relationship at all. It was closeness, a closeness John hadn’t been sure Sherlock would or could want. He did, though. He did. It was enough, for now.
There was an intimacy between them, borne of sleeping in the same bed every night. The scents of each other’s bodies, musky skin and stale breath, soap and shampoo, were as familiar now as their own. Sherlock knew John favoured a particular tee shirt over any other to wear to bed, and John knew Sherlock liked to sleep in pyjama pants but no shirt at all. They knew nearly every bump and curve and hollow of each other’s bodies, having woken up in every possible configuration of entwined limbs. John knew Sherlock liked having his back stroked before he fell asleep, and Sherlock knew John nearly always woke up on his back, no matter how they went to bed. Sherlock had memorised John’s REM cycles. John knew Sherlock’s feet would always be icy cold, no matter the temperature outside. They knew the exact weight of each other’s arms. They knew the sounds that meant someone was waking up, and how those sounds differed from sleepy mumblings. They knew what it was to wake up with their faces centimeters apart and just look at each other, just look, until it became too intense, and one of them would roll and stretch and break the mood.
John was sure he could go on like this forever. He’d stopped dating, and he missed sex a bit, but this thing that was happening with Sherlock, whatever it was, he wanted it. He wanted to experience every second of it, and he wanted Sherlock to understand that this meant something to him. So, no dates. No girlfriends. Just the two of them, whatever they were. He didn’t need to understand it. For the first time in his life, he was just letting something be, and it was working.
The nights they spent in Dartmoor while investigating Baskerville, in separate beds, were restless and awful, and made them stroppy with each other. The third night, after two nights of misery and a fight, John climbed into Sherlock’s tiny single bed.
“I can’t. I just can’t.”
Sherlock opened his arms and gathered him in, even though they were both nearly falling off the mattress, and John had to lay almost completely on top of him to fit. “I know. I can’t either.”
They fell asleep with John’s head on Sherlock’s belly, his body between Sherlock’s legs. His feet hung off the end of the bed, but he didn’t care. Sherlock’s hands were in his hair, and he could hear his heart beating through his aorta. His thighs were warm and soft on either side of John’s torso, and John breathed in deeply, calm for the first time since they’d gotten there, and let himself drift off.
The first night they were home, they both felt so relieved, they went to bed at 8pm and slept until 10am. When they finally woke, they found they were holding hands, fingers twisted together on John’s chest. Sherlock smiled and shrugged, and John felt a warm certainty spread through him. This was right. This was real. Maybe they were doing it differently than other people, but who cares? They’d get there eventually.
John had never felt more certain about anything in his life. They were taking it extremely slow, but that was alright. They belonged to each other, their whole lives were each other. This was the love of his life. He had no doubt.
They would be together forever. Longer than forever.
***
“No one could be that clever.”
“You could.”
John couldn’t believe what he was seeing, what was happening. Why was this happening?
“This phone call, it’s my note. Isn’t that what people do?”
“SHERLOCK!”
Blood. Blood on the pavement. No pulse.
He knew the exact weight of Sherlock’s arm across his chest.
They were going to be together forever.
“My friend, that’s my friend. Please.”
John couldn’t sleep in bed after Sherlock died. He slept curled in Sherlock’s chair, crying silently into the leather, half awake all night. Blood on the pavement.
Sherlock’s arm across his chest, his nose against his neck.
They were going to be together forever.
John moved out of the flat, left everything behind. The only way he slept anymore was to drink until he blacked out.
Sherlock’s name was always on his lips when he awoke.