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Its been six years and forty-two days since they first met, four years and eleven months since he jumped, five years and six months since he felt this way, two years since he acknowledged it to himself, and nine months since he resolved to do something about it. He has been scattering clues everywhere. Has made it obvious to anyone save the basest idiot. He hasn’t allowed them to part even for one night since he was recalled to life, twice sleeping in the same room. He has told John in no uncertain terms that they need to be physically in the same space. The mind palace John is no longer adequate. He has ensured that their belongings in the flat are even more co-mingled than earlier. No more his-and-his. His books stand plastered against John’s journals, every inch of their covers in contact. John will touch the spines of his books, maybe even have to pull out a few to get to his own journals. He insisted on having the same mobiles. He always uses John’s charger. Inserting it into his mobile immediately after John pulls his away. He frequently uses the same soap as John, at times hiding his shampoo so John is forced to use his. He insists on using the bathroom second. Revelling in the smells, the steamy warmth, the damp towel on the rung, and the drops of water still clinging to the bottles. He diligently observed and learnt how John makes his bed. He now insists on making his own bed the exact same way. His innerwear is no longer laundered by strangers. He has learnt to do it in those three years and now he insists that theirs are washed together. John still does it mostly. But sometimes he remembers to. And then he loves to load them all in by hand. Alternating pieces. His, then his, then his, then his... He pours the same detergent and conditioner and switches it on. Sitting there, fixated on the swirl of the clothes together. Mingling their scents, luxuriating in the same fragrance when he folds them. The table is no longer a rectangle. He sawed it off one day. Rounding one corner. Only the one. Now their elbows touch more often. He insists they sit only on the couch. Okay so John sits while he lies on it, resting his feet on him, or his head, or shoulders, or his palms, or sometimes, just to torture himself, just his robe flaring to touch him. John has taken it all rather well. In turns amused, concerned, caring, fond, and lenient, at times irritated (stolen shampoo, sawed off table corners, wet armchair). But John still refuses to acknowledge it. He is pretty sure it’s a subconscious act, which John thinks is self-preservation. If only he knew. He has died for him, lain in a grave just this side of hell, consorted with the devil, and then finally pulled himself from the grave, no matter how painful it was to come back by then. He was barely human. He frequently wonders why he doesn’t have the same instinct for self-preservation. Never had. Not against John. Nine months and six days and still John refuses to see. Refuses to acknowledge.
He has scattered a million clues. They are beginning to wilt.
*****
Eighteen months since Sherlock returned. Sixteen since he moved back. Sherlock still refuses to acknowledge his pain. He still states that he would do it all over again. Sherlock still thinks that it was only he who had died. Sherlock ordered John to stay physically close, refusing to let him stay away for nights. Twice now they have shared a room at a hotel. As if he needed to be told. He still spends nights outside his door listening to Sherlock breathing. It seems the mind-palace John is no longer adequate. How appropriate, that makes two of them then. Sherlock doesn’t understand how smells, sounds, touch can hurt. It hurts to use his shampoo. It hurts to smell his soap on Sherlock. He bleeds when Sherlock messes up the bookshelf and he needs to dig into the interstices between Sherlock’s books to get to his journals. He can barely keep his eyes open seeing them plastered together. Where John had to scramble to get a decent shower now he is being bullied to go first. To find Sherlock folding his clothes, having washed them together, is excruciating. The first time itself, he knew that when next he pulls on his vest and pants his hands will tremble. He was right. He can be barely civil during breakfast when he sits at that travesty of a table. Each time they watch telly or simply read, he is made to sit in the couch. Made to, by Sherlock piling assorted junk on his chair, pouring water on its seat or back so it takes days to dry, rolling it over so anyone overtired wouldn’t have the strength to right it, and even physically hauling him out of it and dragged to the couch. Sitting in proximity would have been bad enough, but Sherlock insists on touching. Sherlock’s feet, hands, shoulder, hair, breath, are always there. Touching. And sometimes its simply the tail of his robe. He won’t complain. He can’t complain. He wanted this. He prayed so hard that this would happen. This was his miracle. His prayer had been granted. Sherlock is not dead. So he does as Sherlock asks. Knowing that his prayer was answered and he shouldn’t ask for more. He scarcely pauses to question it.
You see its a matter of self-preservation.
*****
So when Sherlock catches John outside his door that night, he isn’t sure what it means.
*****
The next morning, John doesn’t know what it means to find Sherlock rubbing himself dry with John’s used towels.
*****
Sherlock sends a text. They are to dine at Angelo’s.
Sherlock dresses himself, reserves a table, calls a cab and waits at the table, looking out of the window once again.
John receives the text, cancels his pub night, comes back home to change into something formal, and dashes out in a hurry. He is late and he can’t find a cab. He runs breathless inside the door of Angelo’s.
The former thief gives him the usual beaming smile as he escorts him to the same table.
They exchange plastic smiles. The wine is poured and the food ordered. He can see that Sherlock is nervous. He has gulped down the wine. There are sweat beads on his hairline. But then Sherlock has noticed that John’s palms are damp too. And he has hardly been sparing the wine. Suddenly Sherlock looks up, his eyes are pleading. John gazes back, rapt, afraid, querying. And then John knows. Sherlock has said all that he is capable of. It has to be him. So John gets up and requests Angelo. He comes back to their table, sits comfortably, places the candle in the neck of the bottle, and lights it.
It’s more romantic no?
The hand grasping his painfully and that shy smile says — yes.