**A/N UPDATE! Sorry it's been so long...this is my first real attempt at a multi-chapter fic and I am finding it both delightful and daunting. Because I'm my own beta, I get a little revision happy. I have added a "prologue" chapter, because even though I'm assuming the boys weren't together pre-Reichenbach, I felt I needed to introduce at least a hint of sexual tension before the break. I've also done some revising to the original three chapters, and chapter four (well, five, now that I have the prologue) is up! Working on the next chapter now. I'm planning on it being a bit longer, so be patient.**
We’re smiling but we’re close to tears Even after all these years We just now get the feeling That we’re meeting for the first time1 ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
***
Overture: John ***
I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.
John has always fancied himself an open-minded sort of chap, but Sherlock’s words give him pause. He’s familiar with the term, of course, though disorders of the brain have never been his particular cup of tea. But the brief definition he remembers from uni is hardly a medical diagnosis, so he follows the advice he knows Anderson won’t, and does his research. One should know these things about one’s flatmates—shouldn’t one?
Charming. Manipulative. Entitled. Demonstrate a marked lack of empathy. Well, yes. But he knew that within a few hours of meeting him, didn’t he? The bloody man left him at a crime scene halfway across the city without so much as a goodbye-here’s-half-a-cab-fare-home.
Compulsive need for excitement and risk-taking, a need to live life on the edge. That one actually seemed a bit interesting, until John had to shoot a man dead just to keep the lanky git from offing himself in some sort of suicide game.
Show love, happiness, and affection only when it suits their ends. Have no capacity for true emotional attachment. For a while, this one rings just as true. John defends himself against it, doesn’t let Sherlock lie. When Sherlock introduces John as a friend, John corrects him: “Colleague.”
Because John realised early on—right around the time Sherlock cured his limp with a lunatic race across half of London—that he was bound to the maniac, for better or worse. But he won’t let it become something that it’s not, something that it can’t be. Sherlock isn’t his friend. Not really. John is a means to an end. He’s not sure
what end—but Sherlock is the one who used the term sociopath, and surely he wouldn’t use it if it weren’t accurate.
John slips up a few times, finds himself thinking of Sherlock as almost human. But the detective is quick to remind him: “Heroes don’t exist, John, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”
So when they are standing at the pool, John wrapped in enough explosives to take out a city block, John doesn’t expect Sherlock to care. Jim, this Moriarty fellow, who is madder than twelve Sherlocks and a bag of monkeys, this man who kidnapped him and wired him with Symtex and painted a laser sight over his heart, this is really the same man who he’s been living with for the last few months. Moriarty and Sherlock, just two sides of the same coin, both using John Watson for their own amusement.
“I will burn the heart out of you,” says Moriarty, and John spares a moment to inwardly roll his eyes. He has a vision of Sherlock flopping down on the couch, huffily drawing his dressing gown around him. Quite the dramatic pair, these two.
“I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one,” Sherlock answers coolly. Hell, the man puts ice to shame. Beneath a layer of terror at the thought of a billion pieces of Dr. John Watson lying scattered about a darkened pool, the doctor himself is still annoyed by the showmanship of it all.
“But we both know,” Moriarty sighs, “that’s not quite true.”
Maybe it’s the madman’s tone, or maybe it’s the way Sherlock’s eyes flick to John—almost imperceptible, so quick John can’t be positive it’s not his overstressed mind playing tricks on him. Maybe it’s the moment where he sees—where he
imagines he sees—pity and sorrow and loss reflected in those grey depths. Somehow, after months of believing the man is some sort of organic computer running purely on electricity, tea, and nervous energy, John sees the human being underneath. And maybe it’s not real, but if Sherlock is faking it, he ought to quit detecting now and go win himself a bloody BAFTA.
He can’t process it all in the moment, but days later, when he replays that evening, John recalls the panic in Sherlock’s voice as the detective strips him of the explosive-laden vest, remembers the bumbling, awkward body language as Sherlock tries to thank him for attempting, yet again, to save his life. John reviews his research, but he can’t fit them together, the Sherlock he saw that night, and the sociopath incapable of forming emotional attachment.
Sherlock is not infallible, John reminds himself. He was at least a little bit wrong about Harry, wasn’t he? Maybe, John thinks, just maybe, Sherlock is also a little bit wrong about himself.
***
“We’re not a couple.” John has said it so many times in so many ways that now he wonders who he’s trying to convince.
Adler’s reply is immediate and condescending. “Yes, you are.” Her red, red lips curling just the right way at the edges—half coy smile, half disappointed frown. And surely that’s proof enough that she’s wrong. If he isn’t straight, why can’t he seem to look away from those lips?
Of course, she’s a professional. Every inch of her is pre-conceived, planned. Tailored. She is an advert, designed to make men look, to make them want. John’s heart wrenches a little in his chest, imagining what Sherlock will do when he learns that she’s alive. It isn’t fair, her flirting with him. John isn’t sure what experience, if any, Sherlock has had with sex, but he knows this woman isn’t offering to love him. Not that he’d begrudge his friend a good shag, but…
John’s gut tells him that Sherlock knows all of the practical, academic knowledge of sex, of love, and very little of its application. And the fact remains that while Sherlock is possessed of a massive ego, he is capable of being simultaneously incredibly insecure. This is one of those rare areas where his intellect cannot help him, and Sherlock deserves to have someone who isn’t going to take advantage of that.
Or maybe it’s just that, despite her admittedly ample physical assets, he doesn’t much like this Adler woman.
“For the record,” he says, managing not to grit his teeth, “if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.”
A perfectly groomed eyebrow lifts in challenge. “Well, I am.”
The pause that follows her statement is brief, but it uncoils between them like a spider’s thread, delicate and dangerous. John isn’t sure what his face is doing. Hopefully it’s tactfully blank. His brain is busy with the implications of her words and absolutely can’t be buggered to control his facial expressions.
She offers him a small smile, tinged with an understanding that both irritates and unsettles him. “Look at us both.”
***
After that, he stops denying it. Not saying it’s true, because it’s not. But denying it suddenly seems a waste of breath and an insult to them both.
Because they’re not a couple. But they’re not just friends, either. Well, John can hardly say what Sherlock thinks, given that at any given moment there is only about a sixty percent chance that Sherlock even knows whether John is in the flat or not. But John knows that Sherlock is more than a friend to him. No friendship in his entire lifetime has consumed him this way.
Sherlock is a child; he needs constant looking after. John exhausts himself making sure the man eats and sleeps and keeps out of the immediate path of speeding bullets. Sherlock throws tantrums that John must diffuse, bruises egos and leaves John to soothe them, treads on toes that John must bandage and splint. Sherlock sees things in a way no one else does, sees things as they
are, sees through them and around them and under them, and it’s breathtaking and John will never get tired of standing by and watching and feeling more than a little foolish. Sherlock can’t get enough of his own voice but craves someone else’s praise; John felt it, the first time he blurted out his amazement and Sherlock’s whole being curled toward him like a flower feeling its first rays of sun.
Sherlock is impossible and obnoxious and fantastic and frustrating, and everything about him makes John feel more like
John. How could anyone ever get enough of that?
So when people assume they’re together, those people are not exactly wrong. It’s just that a word hasn’t quite been invented yet for all the ways that Sherlock Holmes is inside and around and okay,
with John Watson.
Which is why he’s not exactly shocked to find himself running through the streets of London after an absolutely daft and ill-advised and
brilliant escape from police custody, handcuffed to his best friend. And he’s not all that surprised when Sherlock reaches out for him, commanding, “Take my hand.”
He doesn’t hesitate. A far away part of his mind makes a joke, because he’d rather be funny than be honest with himself about just why it’s so easy for him to trust this man, to obey him.
He tells himself his rapid breathing is just from all the running. That sudden spike in blood pressure when Sherlock’s hand closes around his, that’s the rush of adrenaline, pushing him forward. It’s perfectly natural and normal and not at all something that terrifies him.
Still, when they duck into an alleyway and pause to catch their breath, John slips his hand free and grips Sherlock’s sleeve instead. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice the change.
John forces himself to take a few deep breaths. So far today, he’s punched a man, he’s gotten himself arrested, and now he’s become a fugitive. His evening has been eventful enough, he decides, without the added angst of a possible sexuality crisis.
And anyway, Sherlock is already off again. John follows in his wake, pulled by more than just handcuffs, pulled the way a ship is pulled toward the centre of a maelstrom. It’s elemental, this thing between them, and John can’t fight it any more than he can fight gravity: Sherlock is, quite simply, the most massive thing in John’s galaxy, and John’s only choice is to orbit him for as long as he can, before gravity wins and he finally comes crashing down.
***
Overture: Sherlock ***
“I’ve just met a friend of yours.”
“A friend?” Sherlock can’t conceal his surprise.
“An enemy.”
“Oh.” Yes, that does make more sense. “Which one?”
The doctor is smiling a bit. “Your archenemy, according to him.”
Mycroft, then. Sherlock very purposefully does not sigh. He really must get more entertaining enemies. Mycroft and his army of intelligence gathering drones are so boring.
“Oh,” is all he says. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock knows the answer to his next question before he asks it, but better to get it over with. The doctor is a military man, and military, in Sherlock’s experience, values obedience over instinct, rank and file over free thought. While he doubts the doctor was intimidated by Mycroft, he surely gave way before his big brother’s obvious authority. That is the first lesson a soldier learns, is it not? Instinct and logic will tell him to avoid the exploding buildings, to run away from the hail of bullets. Only an officer’s orders and a sense of duty keep him advancing the front line.
Sherlock works to keep his voice casual, free of disappointment. “Did you take it?”
The doctor pauses. Looks at him. Finally says, “No.”
For a moment, Sherlock considers that he may be lying. But no—
maintains eye contact, body language doesn’t flinch away, no visible signs of elevated pulse or body temperature—the doctor is telling the truth.
It takes all of three seconds for Sherlock to summarily delete twenty-three percent of his heretofore knowledge of Dr. John Watson and begin frantically, joyously redecorating the man’s room in his mind palace.
He’ll need the room now, Sherlock is sure of it: the room in the palace and the room in the flat. Sherlock can’t decide what excites him more: that the doctor chose him over his brother, or that the doctor, against all odds, has managed to
surprise him. It is such a very rare thing for Sherlock Holmes to be surprised.
Again, he keeps his voice light, adding a touch of condescension to mask his delight. “Pity,” he says. “We could’ve split the fee. Next time think it through.”
***
“The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun.”
Looks like a .40 caliber. Might be a .357, can’t say until we’ve had a better look. Common to law enforcement, but too widely available to narrow it down for certain. “A kill shot like that, over that distance, from that sort of weapon—you’re looking for a crack shot.”
More than a crack shot. The bullet passed within inches of me—either the shooter didn’t care who he hit or he was positive he wouldn’t miss. “His hands mustn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence.”
Not an amateur, not likely even just law enforcement, not with that sort of CV. Military, maybe. “He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, so obviously has a strong moral principle.”
Unusual combination: not a violent man, but a man of violence. Sherlock is scanning the crowd as he tells Lestrade, “You’re looking for someone probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel…”
His gaze lands on John, standing nonchalantly beside a squad car. The doctor sees him looking and offers him a nod.
Oh.
Oh. Sherlock forces himself to look away, makes what he’s quite sure is a visible effort to keep his face neutral. “You know what?” he says, giving Lestrade the briefest of smiles. “Ignore me.”
John. God, how had he not seen it?
He’s vaguely aware that Lestrade is protesting. “Ignore all of that,” Sherlock repeats. “It’s just the shock talking.” He lifts the corner of the orange blanket still draped over his shoulders, already moving away, moving toward John, drawn to him the way he is always drawn to a puzzle, to a curiosity, to something unique.
Not a violent man, but a man of violence.
John. How very unboring of you. The doctor looks up as Sherlock approaches. He mumbles something about the case, but Sherlock isn’t listening; he’s noting the powder burns just faintly visible on the man’s hands, which he has clasped behind his back. The set of his shoulders almost completely disguises the bulge under his jacket where his shirt meets his jeans.
Clever. Not clever enough for me, of course not, but clever. “Good shot,” he tells the doctor.
“Yes.” John blinks, his eyes wide and far too innocent to be sincere. “Yes, must’ve been, from that window.”
Better if Sherlock gets him away now—the man is not gifted in the art of deceit. If Lestrade’s men ever think to question him, John will fold like a collapsible chair. What sort of man can kill in cold blood but can’t lie to cover it up? What sort of man saves your life and doesn’t tell you? John could be hesitant because he’s worried about getting caught—but he doesn’t seem terribly worried, and if he were, why would he still be here? Frightened men, guilty men, they run. John is neither of those things.
Strong moral principle, Sherlock remembers. John didn’t kill a man for him because he wanted something in return. John killed a man because he thought it was the right thing to do.
Sherlock smiles. He rather likes this one.
***
It is weeks later when John walks out on him for the first time. Sherlock is in a snit because John—perfectly ordinary, idiotic John—called him ignorant.
Spectacularly ignorant, even. All because he didn’t know that the sun went around the Earth…or, wait, no. Earth goes around the sun, that’s it. Hell.
When Sherlock tries to explain that this information is not important, John
laughs at him. He’s subtle about it; the laugh is more incredulous than cruel, but honestly, how does he expect Sherlock is going to respond? So when the detective swirls his dressing gown around his body like a vampire’s cape and flings himself onto the couch, he’s fully expecting that John will apologise—and he will forgive him, after a while, with magnanimous flair.
Instead, John leaves. “Where are you going?” Sherlock is appalled at the undercurrent of panic that he can’t manage to keep out of his voice.
“Out,” is the only reply.
Sherlock is accustomed to people leaving him. What he’s not accustomed to, what he has only experienced twice in his life, in fact, is wanting someone to stay.
The first time he wanted this he was two years old:
The garden wall has a young oak growing at its base, and it makes a perfectly adequate mizzenmast. Captain Holmes has never climbed this mast before, but there are mutters of mutiny among the crew, and if he is to silence them, he must remind his men that he is as good a sailor as any of them, as willing to risk his own life as he is to risk theirs. The fall is only about four feet, and wounds his pride more than anything—especially since it’s Mycroft who finds him—but he huddles in his mother’s arms, hiccoughing his way through passionate sobs. But there’s a party tonight, and mother can’t hold him long—soon enough he’s handed off to Cordelia, the horrid nanny who can’t read long words or wield a pirate sword, so what good is she to anyone? He turns off his tears before she can see them. The second time he wanted someone to stay he was twenty-two:
Victor looks sleek in his overcoat, his eyes alight as he rounds on Sherlock in the doorway. “You really want to know why?” he snarls, and of course Sherlock does; he wants to know everything. “Because,” Victor tells him, “you’re just too much.” Sherlock is reaching for him and stops, recoiling as though Victor has physically struck him. He is floundering, trying to stay angry, because he can feel the emptiness that’s underneath gaping at his feet. An invisible string connects his body to Victor’s, and every step Victor takes away from him drags him closer to the edge of that abyss. “Too much?” he repeats, feeling foolish. He narrows his eyes. “Apparently I’m not nearly enough, if you need half the first-years as well.” Victor doesn’t even have the grace to blush. He steps out into the rain, looking beautiful and cold and cruel. “Good luck to you, Sherlock Holmes. Good luck finding anyone who wants to deal with…”—his gesture takes in all of Sherlock—“…with that
.” After that, Sherlock was quite sure he was done wanting anyone at all in his life for very long. So he is more than a little alarmed at the things happening in his chest as he rushes to the window and watches John disappear into the night. Mrs. Hudson’s arrival allows him to put on a great show of being bored, right up until the flat across the street explodes, providing a much needed distraction from these—these bloody
feelings.
He has almost convinced himself he didn’t feel them at all, in fact, when John shows up again the next morning. Again, his heart does something rather acrobatic inside his chest, and he must keep very still to prevent anyone from seeing how much he’d actually like to get up and
hug John. Instead he notes the doctor’s rumpled clothing and stiff neck and—somewhat rudely—asks him how the lie-low was. The poor man must be frustrated; Sarah’s still not letting him share her bed after all these weeks.
“Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa,” says Mycroft. The bastard—but ah, Sherlock has spotted it now, the red patch of skin where John’s cheek was pressed against imitation leather. Not the sort of fabric one finds on a lie-low.
“Yes, of course,” he says, the distasteful necessity of agreeing with his brother almost overshadowed by the satisfying look of incredulity on John’s face. He plucks impishly at the strings of his violin.
“Business seems to be booming since you and he became pals,” Mycroft says to John. Sherlock pretends not to listen. “What’s he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine.”
Sherlock won’t look at him. He
can’t look at him. His heart is frozen, half fury at his brother for knowing exactly which strings to tug at, half fear of what John will say next.
He sees the doctor glance at him before answering.
The look John gives Mycroft is closed. Careful. “I’m never bored,” he says.
Simple. Direct. Honest without telling the truth. Won’t let me think he’s sorry, but more importantly, won’t give Mycroft anything to use against me. Bless you, John. Under the guise of irritating Mycroft until the cake-gobbling git makes his exit, Sherlock adds another bit of data to his file on John Watson.
If Sherlock pushes, John will push back. He may even leave, if Sherlock pushes hard enough. But there is loyalty there, and a sense of something else, something built of arguments and embarrassments and Sherlock’s perpetual need for someone to filter his intentions from his actions.
Because of these things, these revelations that are only between them, Sherlock knows—he is almost certain—that even if John leaves, he will always come back.
***
1. The Script. Science & Faith. Sony Music Entertainment UK, 2011.
