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Upon reflection John had known it had been a bad idea. The adrenaline had been high, he had been shot at and his legs were about to give way. Whilst John planted himself firmly into his well-worn chair, he looked on with interest as Sherlock went from vertical to horizontal in two seconds onto the sofa. His head tipped back revealing white skin mottled with bruises, his limbs splayed, knees everywhere with his now bare feet stretching. John just smiled because it all he could do. He wanted a cup of tea, he wanted to sleep, but the pain in his chest and the dull throbbing of his limbs kept him securely in place.
Under heavy controlled breaths, John wheezed, “You dare leave me again, you’ll bloody swing.” He looked at the mass on the sofa. A non committal grunt was the reply, Sherlock turned away, a pale hand dismissing the threat.
His eyes narrowed at the ceiling, “Seriously Sherlock- you can’t just go in without telling me!”
“I am trying to sleep John. Do be quiet.” John fell silent, he could almost feel the Cheshire grin spreading across the aquiline features. The words bubbled up before he could stop them, his heart in his chest, high on the victory of being alive and stopping a serial rapist, the blood was thundering in his veins cheering him on.
“I love you.” John said to the wall again. “I bloody love you.” And suddenly the world went white.
“Oh.”
The expanse of black limbs straightened, dark curls falling haphazardly. Ice filled his stomach as the cold wave of rejection passed over him. He felt his eyes shut and his skin prickle with shame. Sherlock was coming towards him, who else had that stride? He felt a hand on his shoulder, the warmth that came so naturally at Sherlock’s contact was mocking and discourteous.
“John look at me.” Sherlock’s voice was steady, but John did not want to look at him, dared not, could not. He wanted to pretend this had not happened, he wanted to brush it off, a mistake. But he couldn’t. “John.” He looked at him. Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed in puzzlement as if John had just admitted his penchant for rural watercolours. John could feel his every cell being observed for information. “I don’t.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Whilst I value you as-” John stood, allowing the hand to fall. Wanting more than anything for this to be wrong, for it to be like his dreams, like his hopes.
He tried to hide the emotion threatening to spill over, Capitan J.H Watson did not cry. “See you tomorrow Sherlock.” Except over Sherlock Holmes.
**
“Then what?” Lestrade was looking at him with enough pity to drown in.
John stared into the distance, all 10 feet of it until his gaze hit the wall and stayed there. “He said Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” John downed the rest of his pint.
Greg looks stricken, running a hand across an unshaven chin. “Shit, John.” John shrugged, giving Greg a quick smile.
It doesn’t seem to have the desired effect, Greg’s face has turned stony. “The bastard comes back from the dead, you profess your love and all he can say is oh?”
“He doesn’t. I can’t hold that against him. And to be fair -” John waved to the barkeep “- he’s been fine with it.”
“Course he’s bloody fine with it, he hasn’t had his heart broken.” This was old ground, some how Molly had found out and she had told Sarah and it now seemed like the entire female population of London knew about his rejection by Sherlock Bloody Holmes. John tipped his head back into his seat, listening half heartedly to Lestrade’s kind words. Wishing he could just go home and get pissed in a cupboard somewhere.
“Are you gay?” Lestrade’s question jolts him out of his reverie.
He licks his lips, “I’m straight and Sherlock-sexual.” John quips with a smile.
“So you’re fine with the female gender..?”
“Lestrade if you’re trying to set me up, I’m really not-”
Lestrade put his hands up defensively. “No. I was just saying there’s a woman over there who’s been checking you out. Ten o’clock, auburn. May do you some good?”
“I better be-” John looks, she’s attractive, curvy, good legs and not at all like Sherlock. She works in retail, aged twenty nine, no kids, no husb-. Fucking hell. He licks his lips again.
“I better be off, early start. See you soon John. Text me if anything happens.” he winks at John, who smiles weakly in return. Shakes Lestrade’s hand, downs the rest of his pint and goes to ask the woman for the time.
**
John strides in to 221b with an air of someone who has been thoroughly shagged. Sherlock who busy inhaling his laptop, looked up, sniffing. “Chanel no 5. Not your usual type.”
“Well, its been an unusual month. If you can come back from the dead, I can shag a ginger.”
“Auburn.” John passes him a mug of tea, ignoring Sherlock. Settling down to read the paper.
“I don’t do sex.” Sherlock announces to the ceiling. John stares at a Caitlin Moran column, which God help him included himself and Sherlock. John shut the paper with a crash. Looking at Sherlock with incomprehension.
“Yes? Your point Sherlock? I fail to see the relevance?” John switched to Page Three of The Sun, trying to keep his tone light.
“If I would ever want to be with someone for the rest of my life it would be you.”
John couldn’t help but roll his eyes, he couldn’t deal with this, the icy feeling was slowly beginning to creep in and he already had a headache. “Sherlock..” he began, his voice calm .
“No John.” Sherlock’s eyes were boring in to him now. “You’re my friend. I would kill for you, I have killed for you. I have thrown myself off buildings for you-”
“Alright Sherlock. Shut up please.”
“-I don’t know what this is, but I never want you to leave. I never want you to be apart from me for any long duration. And any time that you are away from me, I often feel that your time could be spent more effectively with me.”
“Sherlock that’s...that’s..I’m not property Sherlock.” Despite this John couldn’t help but warm, no his blood boil, to the image of Property of S. Holmes written across his body.
“I don’t love you John. I need you. But not in your way.” Sherlock gestured to John’s torso and lower abdomen, making John extremly interested in the article again. “I-”
Sherlock actually stopped at the look on John’s face, which John considered to be a victory in itself, he pressed his advantage, “So you want me forever?” John stared because he could, making Sherlock shift in his seat. “I want to kiss you, hold you, fuck you and tell you to stop putting bloody fingers in the ice cube tray. That’s the reality of it Sherlock and despite me shagging on the side, it isn’t going to go away. It isn’t fair for you to carry on like-” John sighed, a hand through his greying hair. “Touching me excessively, more than anyone else. Sitting down next to you and your bloody thigh is against mine! You’re not like this with Lestrade or anyone else and its bloody unfair Sherlock, you ask -” John’s voice was now showing signs of breaking, but Sherlock inclined his head, his brow furrowing, . “Too much. Sherlock. “
“Ok.” Sherlock sat back, his hands clasped in a familiar pose. John drank his tea, his throat was dry from emotion and alcohol.
“I agree. But not to the sex. I can’t. Its no. Its disgusting and body fluids and frankly cross contamination, its a bacterial disaster waiting to happen.”
“No fucking then.” John snorted into his tea.
“No but I suppose you could see other women for that.” John choked on his tea. Sherlock frowned at the intrusion.
Sherlock was watching him closely, John tried to reclaim his dignity, clearing his throat, he tried to keep his heart steady. “Ok. Now what?”
The man opposite looked puzzled, “Now, we carry on as normal. Except I may occasionally make tea and bake biscuits.” the lips twitched. And John felt something warm settle at the bottom of his stomach, solid and comforting. He became acutely aware that he was grinning like an idiot. “Your smile is rather manic John.” But Sherlock was grinning and as John watched the lines around his eyes crinkled. “I suppose I must therefore reciprocate your feelings.”
“You mad bastard. Can I buy you an apron?”
**
“John?” Sherlock’s tone was confused, the ‘you strange normal people’, he usually reserved for John going out for sex or to get food. It was a routine now, despite John’s initial misgivings.
You’re not cheating on me! As I don’t set any precedent by physical love or intimacy nor does it hold any interest and therefore no emotional response to me, why would I be bothered what you get up to?
“Yes Sherlock?” John popped his head around the kitchen door. To see an extremely amusing sight, Sherlock attempting to cook. At least that’s what he deduced, the evidence for this included the smoke, the smell and the opened cans of baked beans.
Sherlock whirred around hair askew, suit jacket off, buttons bursting, breathing heavily, with a pink apron claiming that “Cooking is simply applied Chemistry and Physics John.”
As if pre-empting John’s outburst at the mess, Sherlock exclaimed “I love you.”
“Oh.” John dead pans. Sherlock’s eyes went wild, his face slackened and John saw him visibly slump, his knees must have given way slightly. The sight of Sherlock Holmes literally weak at the knees, was more than even an army doctor could take. John grinned, and taking the opportunity placed a slow kiss to Sherlock’s cheek.