Chapter Text
The First Time:
Gunshots rang out in the air as the sun’s rays beat down on John. Screaming loudly, soldier laid before him, bleeding out of his leg. John somehow managed to pull him behind cover without anyone seeing after the soldier was shot. Now his time was limited; the gunfire was getting closer with every passing moment. They could be discovered any second by either their comrades or their enemies. Applying as much pressure as possible with his left hand, John attempted to find the gauze with his right hand. Bile was rising in the back of his throat as he heard some bullets deflect off the boulders in front of them. Turning back, John found Sherlock laying in front of him. Sherlock – barely breathing – tears streaming down his cheeks – his pulse becoming weak. John’s heart ripped in two; Sherlock could not die on him. What would John do without him? No. He had to save Sherlock’s life, even if it cost him his own. But Sherlock was fading too quickly. Unfocused eyes locked onto John’s and cracked lips parted to whisper, “Goodbye, John.”
Jerking straight up in bed, John gasped before crying out in pain. A sharp, burning ache shot through his chest, and he quickly remembered the night's previous encounter. Sherlock jerked awake next to him. “John?” he called out.
“Goodbye John,” rang through his ears again. Suddenly, John realised that his cheeks were wet and his eyes were still warm and burning. Pretending to wipe the sleep out of his eyes, John replied, “I’m fine.” His hands trembled slightly, so he quickly lowered them to the blankets before they gave him away. After a moment of collecting himself, John laid back down next to Sherlock. Unlike before, they were no longer snuggled together. That was fine with John; he did not like to be coddled after a nightmare. It always made him feel emasculated. Nestling back under the covers, John slowed his breathing and tried to calm his rapidly beating heart.
“It’s only obvious this would happen,” Sherlock said out of the blue. “You were in a fight tonight, after all. That would pull back some rather… unpleasant memories.”
Setting his jaw, John snapped, “Shut up, Sherlock.” He didn’t want to be emotionally coddled either. He was a war veteran, for God’s sake! Not some blubbering housewife waiting for a man to sweep him off his feet. Next to him, Sherlock shifted a bit and flipped over in order to turn his back to John. John knew this was Sherlock’s way of conveying his displeasure. Setting aside his feelings, he knew it wasn’t fair for him to snap at Sherlock, especially when Sherlock actually tried to be there for him. “I don’t like being pitied,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I’m not fragile by any means, so I detest it when someone treats me like I am.” Looking over at Sherlock’s back, John continued, “This nightmare I had – it... well, how can I explain? It was one of my worse than normal nightmares.” Sherlock did not acknowledge him, and John knew he would have to suck it up and say it if he did not want to have the first night they go to bed angry at each other to be the very same night they had sex for the first time. “It was worse because you died in it.”
At hearing this, Sherlock flipped over to face him. In the moonlight, John could see that his eyes were wide with surprise. “How did I die?” he asked, his curiosity palpable.
“Not by one of your experiments. That would have been more entertaining,” John stated a bit jokingly before swallowing. He decided to leave out the bit about Afghanistan; it wasn’t important or relevant in his mind. “You were shot. You were shot, and I couldn’t save you. Your last words were, 'Goodbye, John.' And then you died right in front of me, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. And it hurt, Sherlock. It fucking hurt to watch your life slip away and know that there was nothing I could do to save you.”
He waited for Sherlock to say something – anything, really. After all, Sherlock’s silvery eyes were still fixated on him. Never wavering for a moment. He could see Sherlock analysing; he could see it in the intensity behind Sherlock’s eyes. It was practically like watching the gears turn in his head. And yet Sherlock, who always had to have the last word in a conversation, said nothing in response. It should have been clear that John was done talking. The silence had lasted long enough to make that obvious. So why was Sherlock not saying anything?
Very slowly, Sherlock reached out and grasped John’s hand, intertwining their fingers almost immediately. Blinking in surprise, John realised exactly what was going on: Sherlock didn’t know what to say. Of course he wouldn’t; he had never been in a relationship before. His logic could not help him now, so he must have decided that it was better to say nothing than to say something and mess it all up. His analysing of the situation must have led him to the conclusion that physical touch could properly replace any words – or the lack thereof – and thankfully came to the conclusion that simple hand-holding would suffice. Smiling softly, John squeezed Sherlock’s hand reassuringly. Then, he closed his eyes and tried to engrain the first memory he ever had of Sherlock utterly speechless.
The Second Time:
The next morning, John woke up to find Sherlock was gone. He groaned and clambered out of bed, unsure if he wanted to know what the consulting detective was doing at seven in the morning. Emerging from the bedroom, John found Sherlock curled up in front of the telly and felt a rush of relief to know that he would not have to dance around an experiment so early in the morning. John grabbed the bread off the top of the fridge and put four pieces in the toaster. Then he quickly filled the kettle before setting it on the stove and turned the stove on. As the kettle heated up and the bread toasted, John headed over to see what Sherlock was watching. Surprisingly enough, the consulting detective was sitting in front of a murder mystery. Staring at the telly, Sherlock squinted in calculation. John glanced back at the telly before heading back into the kitchen.
Suddenly, John called back, “Why are you watching that? It’s obvious that the son did it.” He dared to look back to see Sherlock staring at him in pure shock.
“How do you know?” Sherlock inquired.
John answered, “Look at his shirt. It’s buttoned up.” Sherlock swiftly looked at the telly, and John saw his eyes widen in realisation and astonishment. When Sherlock looked back up at him in awe, John continued, “I’m sure you’ve realised it by now. No one buttons up those kinds of shirts. He didn’t realise that someone would hear him killing his own parents, so the police arrived sooner than anticipated. He panicked, threw that shirt on and buttoned it up to hide the blood splatter across the shirt underneath.”
Sherlock’s jaw was dropped, his eyes completely wide as he stared at John with the same look a little kid would have if they found out their favourite toy could do something new. Turning his back to the consulting detective, John fought the overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. He poured the tea, his hands shaking from his controlled laughter. He grabbed the two mugs and set them on the tray, knowing it would be easier to carry everything with it, and everything else needed before hearing the toaster beep. Quickly, he straightened up and made sure to look serious. He turned around, and his façade nearly broke when he found Sherlock still staring at him in unadulterated amazement. Biting his tongue, John set down the tea tray in front of Sherlock and turned to fetch the toast. He pulled down two plates before grabbing the jam out of the refrigerator, purposefully ignoring the severed hand next to it. When he happened to look in to still see Sherlock watching him in wonderment, John realised he just did not have the heart to tell him the episode was a rerun.
The Third Time:
Two days later, John and Sherlock found themselves at Scotland Yard. John had been called in to give another statement about the fight and to record the injuries sustained from it. Durant was pleading self-defence, so the Yard had to collect evidence to prove his allegation false. Standing in Lestrade’s office, John was shirtless and had his arms stretched up. Anderson was taking photographs of the different bruises and lesions across his skin. Meanwhile, Lestrade and Sherlock were discussing the case.
“You mean to tell me that you figured everything out even before John went out to meet the killer?” Lestrade asked incredulously.
Sherlock responded, “Of course I did. It’s rather obvious.”
“As if,” Anderson sneered as he zoomed in on one of the bruises.
Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock smirked. “Would you like me to prove it?” he inquired. John barely kept himself from rolling his eyes, knowing they were going to hear all about it either way. Before anyone responded, Sherlock explained, “First of all, the proof of life photo was the first red flag. The girl wasn’t wearing a blindfold, which means there were three possibilities. The first possibility was that the kidnappers had masks on. The second was that she was doomed to die no matter if they got the money or not. The third was she knew the kidnappers and was part of the plot. When you found her barely alive, it reduced three possibilities to one. After all, they had plenty of time to ensure her death. If they had truly wanted her dead, she would have been dead well before you found her.”
“How could you have gotten that from the kidnap photo? We didn’t find that photo until-” Lestrade paused midsentence and stared at Sherlock. “You didn’t.”
Sherlock appeared genuinely confused. “How else do you think I deduced the location of the girl? Psychic vision?” he inquired.
“Did you know about this?” Lestrade asked, staring at John.
John knew better than to answer that question. Pointing at Anderson, John quickly replied, “Photographs. Can’t chat right now.”
Scowling, Lestrade turned back to Sherlock. “You cannot steal evidence from our crime scenes, Sherlock! An entire case can get thrown out if we can’t prove chain of custody.”
“It’s not like this picture is going to make or break your case,” Sherlock responded coolly.
Lestrade groaned. “One of these days, you’re going to take something important. It’s going to get our case thrown out of court, and I’ll be out of a job thanks to you.”
“Mycroft would make sure that never happened,” Sherlock reassured him. “He wouldn’t want me to be ostracised from the Yard as well. The pandemonium that would ensue would cause him much more trouble than pulling a couple strings to ensure your job.”
Lestrade shook his head. “Just – don’t take evidence without permission again.”
“John, could you lift your arm straight up?” Anderson inquired politely. John did exactly as ordered, grimacing a bit as he felt a dull burn shoot through his side. As Anderson took more photos, he turned back to listen to Lestrade and Sherlock again.
“Anyway,” Sherlock continued, shooting Lestrade a look, “it became more obvious with every death. The accomplice had a picture of himself with the culprit – Durant, was it? – in his living room. Honestly, how did you miss that?”
Lestrade set his jaw and opened the door. “Donovan! Get me all the evidence from we took from the second victim’s flat,” he ordered before closing it behind him.
“When we met at the hospital, the culprit was acting so poorly that I’m surprised you lot fell for it. Nothing about his body language conveyed sadness or anger. Such emotions only reflected on his face and in his voice,” Sherlock continued. “I became suspicious, so I left to check the body. Two puncture wounds in the elbow revealed some truth to my deduction, but I couldn’t be sure yet. When he killed the boat rental employee not even 24 hours after you told him about the possibility of a witness, I knew for sure that he was the culprit. I also reasoned that if I continuously pursued this case, he would eventually come after me.”
Anderson rolled his eyes as he took a photo of the nice bruise on John’s right cheek. “You’re making this up,” he snapped. “You have to be. If you knew it was the murderer, why would you send John in to face him?”
“Because he’s a freak, that’s why,” Donovan answered as she entered with a box of evidence. She looked at John with a small frown. “I warned you that he only cares about himself. I told you that you’re going to get yourself killed by staying with him.”
John answered smoothly, “I survived Afghanistan. I think I can survive a beating or two. Besides, I went of my own volition, not because Sherlock asked me to go.”
Anderson took a photo of John’s black eye. “Come on, you don’t have to cover for him. We know that he probably sent you out to die. He’s a sociopath; he isn’t capable of caring about anyone else. If you told us, we could bring up charges and put him in a cell, which is where he belongs,” he said to John before straightening out. John felt a rush of anger as he processed what Anderson had just told him. Subconsciously, John clenched his lift hand into a fist. He was tired of listening to Anderson’s shit about Sherlock. If he knew the consulting detective at all, he would not being saying half of those words. Oblivious, Anderson then asked, “Now how do we prove that John didn’t initiate the fight?”
Before anyone could respond, John nailed Anderson in the face. A sharp spike of pain tore through his sides as he put all his strength and anger behind one punch. Anderson staggered back before crashing to the ground. Sally screamed unintelligible words as she rushed to Anderson’s side. Jaw dropped, Lestrade looked from John to Anderson and then back to John. Eyes wide, Sherlock was also clearly startled by what had just transpired. John shook the pain out of his hand before realising what he had done. “Check his face for a bruise like that,” he spat venomously, “and if he doesn’t have one then I didn’t swing the first punch.” With that, he turned on his heels and stormed out of the room.
“John!” Sherlock called out, and he could hear the consulting detective hurrying to catch up. “What was that?”
John headed down the stairs, not in the mood to wait for the lift. “I got tired of him saying shit about you like he knows who you are. Calling you a sociopath – saying you’re incapable of caring – saying you should be rotting in a cell right now!” he snarled before stopping. Anger overwhelmed him again, and he hit the wall next to him with the side of his fist. “And you just stand there and take their shit every time! You never once try to defend yourself or throw it in their face about how they’re bloody wrong. It’s so damn irritating,” he continued, looking over at Sherlock. Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, and John could see the quick and numerous deductions being made. Finally, Sherlock brought his hand up to show John that he had grabbed his shirt on the way out. John muttered, “Thank you.”
Gently, he took the shirt from Sherlock’s hand and pulled it over his head. His anger was beginning to die down now that he was away from them, and he almost regretted hitting Anderson. Almost, but not quite. Once his shirt was on, he looked back up to find Sherlock closer than before. Sherlock stooped down and placed a quick, chaste kiss on John’s lips. In that kiss, John felt Sherlock’s gratitude. He realised that Sherlock was speechless again – that Sherlock had deemed even a “thank you” as incorrect for the situation. Without a word, Sherlock then turned and continued down the stairs. John hesitated a moment before following, unable to keep himself from smiling.
The Fourth Time:
“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs Hudson called in, lightly tapping on the door.
John looked up from his laptop and smiled. “Good afternoon, Mrs Hudson,” he greeted. “How are you doing today?”
“Just fine, dear. Just fine. My hip hasn’t acted up even once today,” Mrs Hudson exclaimed happily. “It must be due to the nice weather.” John nodded absentmindedly, glancing back at his laptop for a moment to save the blog post he had been working on. “It’s been so quiet today,” she noted.
“Yes,” John agreed. “Sherlock is out on a case right now.”
Clearly confused, Mrs Hudson inquired, “Why aren’t you with him?”
“I might or might not have punched the lead forensics investigator two days ago,” John responded, unable to keep a smug smile off his face. Mrs Hudson looked at him in surprise, and John continued, “He might or might not have said something rude about Sherlock.”
Suddenly, Mrs Hudson grinned. She leaned down and patted him on the shoulder. “Next time, hit him once for me, would you?” she whispered.
John grinned and give a curt, acknowledging nod. Suddenly, both of them heard the front door open and slam shut. “Sherlock’s back,” he noted. They suddenly heard two loud voices arguing and listened as the two voices got closer. Just as they were outside the flat door, John realised that it was Mycroft who was yelling back.
Sherlock burst into the flat with his elder brother on his heels. “No, Mycroft, absolutely not!” he snapped as he stalked towards John. John exchanged looks with Mrs Hudson as they tried to figure out what the Holmes brothers were arguing about now.
“I don’t think that’s your decision to make,” Mycroft responded calmly. “I’m not asking you to do this for me.”
Glaring at Mycroft, Sherlock haughtily responded, “Lestrade is just as capable. Why don’t you pull him away from his work for a week for your little project?”
“Because Dr Watson is currently unemployed and would probably appreciate the work more than Lestrade,” Mycroft responded. John heard Mycroft use his proper title and mentally groaned. Mycroft only used it when he needed a favour from him or was about to blackmail him. Turning, Mycroft smiled sickeningly sweet at John. “I need your help, Dr Watson. There’s a case-”
John cut him off, “Although I’m flattered, I have to decline.”
“I must insist that you reconsider,” Mycroft responded.
Smiling, John responded, “I’m sorry, but I’m much too busy with keeping Sherlock alive and out of trouble. If you took me away for a week, we might come back to find him dead. Or even worse: still alive. Lord knows what we would return to if he was still alive.”
Mycroft frowned for a moment before his eyes widened. “Ah,” he murmured, smirking. “Oh, that’s interesting. I must admit that I’m torn between being surprised and seeing this coming all along.”
“What’s he going on about?” Mrs Hudson inquired, confused.
Sighing, John turned to her. It would only be a matter of time before she realised it as well. So as Sherlock said, “It’s nothing, Mrs Hudson,” John answered, “Sherlock and I are together now.” Sherlock’s jaw dropped at the same time Mrs Hudson’s did. Mycroft just stood there, smiling smugly. Flushing due to their reactions, John returned to his laptop and added, “So there. Now you know. It’s not a big deal or anything.”
“Well, I suppose I should ask Lestrade then,” Mycroft responded, swinging his umbrella. “It’s been a while since he’s been on a vacation anyway.”
At seeing Mycroft leave, Mrs Hudson became a bit flustered. “Well, boys, I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. But remember: I’m not your housekeeper,” she stated before heading for downstairs as well.
John kept pecking away at the keys, allowing the silence to settle in the flat. His face was still burning by the sudden declaration. “Good to see your opinion of our relationship has changed,” Sherlock suddenly said, catching John off guard.
“I beg your pardon?” John asked, not following Sherlock’s thought process.
Sherlock repeated in his best John voice, “Sherlock and I are together now. It’s not a big deal or anything.”
Smiling softly, John shook his head. “I suppose I owe you an apology,” he commented.
“What for?” Sherlock inquired, obviously perplexed.
“The last time you said that, I nearly bit your head off. But I didn’t mean – it’s just that – what I’m trying to say is,” John stammered before pausing. “Being in a relationship isn’t easy, but that doesn’t mean that defining it should be difficult as well. I’m sorry that I snapped before. It wasn’t right, but I was just frustrated that you weren’t having the same struggles I was. Even when you were in ‘not your area,’ you still were so much better at it than me.”
For a long moment, Sherlock squinted at John, as if trying to decipher something from his face or demeanour. John felt himself being deduced from the wrinkles on his face all the way down to the scuffs on his shoes. Eventually, Sherlock muttered something to himself, shook his head, walked over to the kitchen table, and began looking through his microscope. John turned back to his blog and resisted the temptation to type, “Sherlock Holmes Speechless.”
It's Reversed:
John stretched out on the sofa and sighed. Four hours ago, Sherlock had received a text and went sprinting out of the flat without a word. Still sore and bruised, John knew better than to go running off after him. Even so, he was restless. Only God knew what Sherlock was getting himself into that very moment. John rose to his feet and began pacing back and forth as time slowly ticked by. An hour later, John heard the front door open. It took nearly all his self-control to keep from checking to see if it was Sherlock. As he heard heavy footsteps heading up the stairs, John relaxed. The door to the flat opened, and John looked over to find Sherlock dishevelled and short of breath. A long scratch stretched across his right cheek, and John knew that the evening had not gone as Sherlock planned. Quickly, John headed into the kitchen, set the kettle on the stove, and grabbed the first aid kit. He entered the living room to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands.
Kneeling down in front of him, John opened the first aid kit and grabbed the disinfectant. “Sherlock,” he said softly, “let me see the scratch.”
Without saying a word, Sherlock dropped his right hand and turned his head to give John better access to the wound. John applied the disinfectant and quickly patched it up. Just as he finished, the kettle whistled. John packed up the first aid kit and put it back while en route to the kettle. Preparing some tea, he wondered what happened to make Sherlock so quiet and passive. Part of him worried that Moriarty had emerged from hiding, but he figured Sherlock would be excited about that. After all, Moriarty was considered "interesting" and "novel." John set the tray like always, remembering to set the spoon so Sherlock could pick it up easily with his right hand, and brought it into the living room. Gently, he set it down on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. He poured the tea and took a mug, not pressing or prodding Sherlock to do the same. As he went to sit in his chair, he felt Sherlock grab his hand. John looked back in surprise and curiosity.
“Eros, ludus, storge, pragma, agape, and mania,” Sherlock listed.
Confused, John asked, “What?”
“Those are the six different types of love: eros, ludus, storge, pragma, agape, and mania,” Sherlock explained. “Eros love focuses more on beauty and physical attraction. Such lovers are considered unrealistic since they live in a fantasy world where beauty never fades and hardships never happen. Ludus love is about excitement and is not taken very seriously. Such lovers are known to be sexually aggressive and only maintain partners as long as they are found interesting or amusing. Storge love is about compatibility and lacks intense passion. The relationship between lovers might be difficult to define due to the slow pace of the relationship, and sex comes in late and plays no great importance. Pragma love generally focuses on social aspects and the usefulness of a relationship instead of personal qualities and romance. Agape is a completely selfless love, in which the lovers expect nothing from the people they love and would give up anything for them. This love is generally used to describe love from Gods in different religions. And then there’s mania, which is characterised by extreme highs and lows. Such lovers incessantly worry about losing their lovers and become obsessive, believing their self-worth only comes from being loved.”
John’s mind whirled as he tried to remember everything Sherlock just told him. Finally, he said, “Alright.”
“Six different types of love defined in the English language, John, and not a single one describes how I feel about you,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. John blinked in surprise as he heard this. Normally, Sherlock refrained from speaking so openly about his feelings. Something traumatic must have happened tonight for him to feel the need to put everything into words. John felt Sherlock gently squeeze his hand. “That’s why I cannot bring myself to say those three words. Do not believe it’s because I feel nothing, but it’s because love cannot possibly describe how I feel about you. It’s inadequate.”
Shaking his head, John said, “It’s fine, Sherlock.”
“It’s not,” Sherlock replied earnestly, his hand tightening around John’s. “Because one day, you’ll need to hear it. You’ll need to hear it from me so you can remember it forever. So I’ll say it just this once. Just once, John, so don’t forget. Whatever you do, you have to promise me you won’t forget.”
John could feel the gravity of the situation, and it felt like a cold block of ice lodged itself in his stomach. Bile thick in his throat, he heard his voice crack a bit as he said, “I promise.”
“I love you, John Watson,” Sherlock stated, locking eyes with him. John was drawn in, seeing the sincerity in Sherlock’s eyes. “I’m in love with you. And no matter what might come, that will never change.”
John suddenly and inexplicably felt lighter. “I love you, too,” he murmured.
“I know,” Sherlock responded, smirking. Gently, he pulled John down and into a passionate kiss. And for that moment, John forgot everything. He forgot about Sherlock’s unnatural silence, forgot about the cut he had just patched up, and forgot about the sinking suspicion in his gut. All he could hear were those words echoing in his mind, and all he could feel were Sherlock’s lips against his own.