Chapter Text
“Oh for God’s sake!” John stood in the doorway of the (frankly, mediocre) hotel room with a suitcase in each hand. Sherlock peered from behind him to spy the lone bed in the middle of the lackluster room. John gritted his teeth. This was just his luck. He was exhausted after a long case that took the pair from one useless witness to another and had ended in a foot chase across an unfamiliar city with the World’s Only Consulting Narcissist leaving him behind at every turn. The day had ended rather disappointingly when they in fact failed to apprehend the suspect and Lestrade sent them home tired, defeated, and utterly pissed off.
Sherlock insisted that he could track down the murderer if he was given just a bit more time. Lestrade wouldn’t budge, however, repeating that they knew where he was headed and had a team to intercept him in the morning. It was only after Lestrade threatened to throw Sherlock and John both in jail for the night for interfering with a police investigation that he resigned himself to the hotel Mycroft had booked for their overnight stay during what was originally estimated to be a much longer ordeal. This is where John found himself, standing in the doorway, staring at the solitary bed they were apparently going to have to share for the night, cursing his own luck and Sherlock’s “massive intellect” for robbing him of another night’s peaceful rest.
“John,” came a deep voice from behind John’s ear, startling him out of his thoughts. “I really don’t want to spend the night in the hallway. If you’re going to continue to panic over this situation could you at least do so to one side of the doorway so that I can enter the room?”
John shot him a side-eye over his shoulder and stepped into the room with a huff. “Panic?” John watched the man stroll into the room and sit down on the end of the bed. “What would I be panicking about?”
Sherlock answered without looking up from his shoes, which he was currently removing. “You won’t ‘catch the gay’ by sharing a bed with a man, John, I can assure you. Your heterosexuality is perfectly safe.”
There it was. John almost had to laugh to himself now every time Sherlock made some comment about John being straight. John didn’t initially intend to hide his bisexuality from Sherlock, or from anyone for that matter. In fact, John had been hitting on Sherlock that first night at Angelo’s. But when Sherlock rejected him so soundly, John quickly backpedaled, resulting in one of the only times he can recall seeing Sherlock look honestly confused. John then made it a point to be absolutely clear to everyone (in Sherlock’s presence, certainly) that he was NOT Sherlock’s boyfriend. He could see how uncomfortable it made Sherlock and he didn’t want his new flat mate to worry about John making another move. He went so far as to insist that he “wasn’t gay” (not entirely a lie, mind you), and Sherlock, in the most Sherlockian display of bisexual erasure in recent history, deduced that John’s adamant denial of being “gay” translated into slightly-homophobic-straight-man-John, and with that label he had apparently resided in Sherlock’s mind palace from that point forward. Honestly, it was almost a point of pride at this point – something John held over Sherlock – the one thing The Great Detective failed to deduce. There’s always something. Every time Sherlock made some comment about John and his heterosexuality, John debated between keeping his mouth shut while chuckling to himself about his private victory, and blurting out “wrong, you pompous git, I happen to like dick, too. Gotcha!” He always chose the former, telling himself he’d wait a little longer for the right opportunity before taking the wind out of Sherlock’s sails.
For now, he had to play the straight game. “I’m not panicking about my—you know what? I’m not going into this with you. I’m frustrated because I’m going to have to share this small bed with a giant octopus and I’m not going to get much sleep, if you must know. Yeah, I’ve seen how you sleep, Sherlock. I’m half expecting to wake up with a black eye. Why would Mycroft book us such a shitty hotel room anyway?”
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “He’s punishing me. Every time I turn down one of his mindlessly boring cases he feels the need to ‘knock me down a peg’ as you would put it.”
John pressed his lips together. “Wonderful. Well could you try not to piss him off too much in the future, please, I don’t fancy having to be fumigated before returning home. Bad enough I’ll probably wake up with a few bruises, the way you flail around in your sleep.”
Sherlock smirked to himself. “Yes, well…never fear, John, I’m sure I won’t be sleeping anyway.”
John opened his suitcase and grabbed the clothes he had packed for himself to sleep in before heading toward the (impossibly tiny) bathroom. “You’ve got to sleep, Sherlock. The case is over—”
“The case is not quite over yet—”
“The case is over and it’s time you slept.” With a final nod, John flicked his sternest “dad look” in Sherlock’s direction before disappearing into the bathroom to change.
The door clicked closed and Sherlock breathed out a small sigh. He glanced over at the clock, sent out a quick text, and lay down on the bed, fully clothed, disappearing into his mind palace. That is how John found him when he emerged from the bathroom in his threadbare t-shirt and pajama bottoms. He quietly moved the suitcase to the floor and crawled under the blankets. He tried not to think about the warmth radiating from the body lying next to him. He glanced over to look at Sherlock, now that his eyes were closed and he had the opportunity. He really was an absolutely gorgeous man. John had always found him beautiful. After that first “married to my work” rejection, he didn’t allow his thoughts to progress from there. He knew Sherlock was off limits, and he was relatively ok with that. He admired the man, couldn’t stand him at times, and found him downright adorable on certain occasions. And if his heart occasionally gave him a swift kick in the ribs when Sherlock looked at him with a touch of danger in his eyes or lisped his way through a deduction when he was beyond sleep deprived well, that was nobody’s business but his own. He could live with it. He was a military man, after all. Good at schooling his own features and feelings when necessary.
But now…now he could look. And what a beautiful sight his flat mate was. Sure, age had pulled on some of his features, rounded a few corners and creased a few others, but it only added to his distinctiveness. He was still Sherlock, but with perhaps a pinch of wisdom and pain intermingled with the rest. Being this close to the man he could smell him. Sweat and dirt, hair product and deodorant. John’s mother would have said he “smelled like outside.” A touch of honey – he always smelled a bit like honey – all overlying a strong base of “Sherlock” that he couldn’t pinpoint but was sure he could identify in a line up with his eyes closed. He breathed a little deeper, memorizing it. He knew it was a bad idea, entertaining his feelings for Sherlock this way, but so much had transpired over the last few years. The loss of Mary, the traumatic ordeal with Eurus, and now raising Rosie in 221B with his best friend as co-parent. He wasn’t getting any younger, and he had realized how short life could be. So if he wanted to indulge in his hedonistic enjoyment of all the sensations made possible by his maddening flat mate once in a while, just to sate the need, he couldn’t find much fault in that decision. And if, now and then, he chose to indulge by running a fantasy through his mind and a hand over his cock, that, too, was no one else’s business but his own. Was it helping him get through the lonely days and nights at Baker Street these days? Absolutely. Was it also making a more and more frequent appearance at inopportune times? Maybe. Was John finding it harder and harder to push his feelings back down where they belonged? Well…no comment…
John let out a yawn as he managed to tear his eyes away from the ethereal sight of his peacefully-resting best friend. He arched his back in a stretch, hearing a few more cracks and pops than there used to be. He sunk further into the bed as his body finally realized how spent it really was, and before long, John was snoring softly in the darkened room.
Sherlock waited until he could hear John’s breathing grow deeper and steady before opening his eyes. He waited until he heard several minutes of soft snores escape his flat mate’s lungs before moving. He checked his phone, texted a quick reply to someone, then silently put on his shoes and headed toward the door. John needed his sleep, but Sherlock could manage this bit on his own. After all, he wasn’t about to let a serial killer targeting healthcare professionals run around loose in the city while John was within striking range. He could slip away, unnoticed, take down the criminal the way he had planned before Lestrade stopped listening to reason, and be back to their room before morning. And John would be safe. He glanced at John, mouth slightly open, drooling a bit on the pillow, his face relaxed and perfect. He exhaled a shaky breath as he wrestled a few pesky feelings into submission. Now was not the time for sentiment. He allowed himself a soft smile before donning his detective mask once again. Flipping his coat collar up, Sherlock and his bloody ridiculous cheekbones slipped silently out the door.