Chapter Text
It happened quite by accident.
At least that was what Sherlock told himself later, in the cab.
They’d been following a lead in Bromley, just out from Crystal Palace Station. It had been a relatively uneventful excursion. In truth, it was nothing they couldn’t have done on the internet, but Sherlock had felt it was important to get John out of the flat for a while. He’d been sullen and difficult for days.
Sherlock knew, of course, that the formal dissolution of his marriage was weighing heavily on his mind. John was an honourable man, and he had loved Mary. While the events with “Moriarty” had put the final nails in that coffin, Sherlock knew it hadn’t been easy.
John had been home, at Baker Street, for a few weeks. Sherlock had tried to be restrained in his responses. He didn’t want to offend John with his obvious delight in having his best friend back at 221B. Not when John was still struggling.
But Sherlock was delighted. He’d never wanted anything more in his life, and when it happened—when John had turned up at the top of the stairs, bags in hand—Sherlock had been as happy as he could ever remember being.
He did try to contain his good mood, but today it had spilled over. Much to everyone’s mortification.
He’d kissed John. Right there at Crystal Palace Station, on the platform waiting for the Southern train to London Victoria.
John had been chuckling over the animated way Sherlock related his thoughts about the letters their client had received, and then had praised Sherlock for a (admittedly brilliant) deduction about the origin of the man’s toupee. It had been so effortless between them, like the old days. Sherlock had simply moved without thinking.
He’d stepped in, cupped John’s delightful square jaw in both hands, and drawn him up. He’d happily slotted his fuller bottom lip between both of John’s as naturally as though he’d been doing it for years, and hummed his pleasure at the warm, moist pressure.
John’s mouth had opened on a gasp and Sherlock had pulled away immediately.
John hadn’t said anything, of course. He’d blinked a few times, cheeks flushed. Finally, he’d just ground his teeth and marched away from Sherlock to board the train that had just arrived. He’d stared out the window and said nothing for the duration of the trip. He was still silent when they caught the cab that brought them home.
Now, standing in Mrs. Hudson’s foyer, Sherlock felt compelled somehow to make amends.
“I’m sorry.”
John was grim, tugging his gloves off with more force than was strictly necessary. He stuffed them in the pockets of his jacket before removing it and hanging it on the hook by the door. Sherlock did the same with his coat.
“I know I should have asked.”
This earned him a hard stare—the kind only Captain Watson could give.
John stomped up the stairs, muttering to himself. It was something that sounded very much like “bloody right.”
Sherlock followed, quickly recalculating his approach.
It wasn’t as though John was immune to him entirely. He knew that. He knew, too, that it was ridiculous to think John could love him back in the same way—regardless of what happened in his Mind Palace. Yet there was still something between them. Perhaps…
“I’d make it good.”
John stopped short just inside their sitting room door, but did not turn. “What?”
“The, you know. Physical…stuff,” Sherlock tried. He closed the sitting room door behind them. “My experience is not extensive. And I know you’re not gay. But I know some men would…you know. If no one knew. And no one would ever know. Also, I know you care about me and of course I care about you. I would give you whatever you needed. Whatever—” Sherlock broke off, head drooping. He shrugged helplessly. “Whatever you wanted. I would do that. And I would never ask for anything. Or tell anyone. If you…”
“If no one knew?” John repeated, turning now to face Sherlock. His expression was one of horror.
Sherlock nodded.
“You-you think that’s what this is?” John stammered. “That I’m ashamed of…that I’m embarrassed?”
Sherlock blinked and shook his head. “Well…yes?” He looked up at John, brow furrowed. “Isn’t that what you always said? ‘I’m not his date.’ ‘I’m not gay.’ ‘People will talk.’ I can take a hint.” He considered this for a second. “Sometimes.”
A horrible noise stuck in John’s throat and his face twisted as though he were in pain. He braced himself against the wall with one hand. The other hand flattened with a thump over the centre of his chest as he bent slightly from the waist. His breathing was rapid—far too rapid. He was beginning to hyperventilate. Sherlock could see the sweat beading on his forehead.
“What is it?” Sherlock asked sharply. He knew he needed to stay calm, but John was such a horrible grey colour. He looked so small and broken.
Sherlock reached toward John, but stopped just short of touching him. His fingers curled and uncurled in the air with the desperate need to feel John’s comforting solidity beneath his fingertips. “John, please. I don’t know what this is. What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
John shook his head.
“Oh, god, are you having a heart attack? Should I call 999?”
John struggled to shake his head again, still breathing too hard. “Panic…” he gasped. “Attack.”
“What do I do?” Sherlock begged, edging closer. “What do you need?”
“Okay,” John gasped, grasping at Sherlock’s shirtsleeve with his other hand. “Be okay…in a minute. Just…too much…”
Sherlock scanned the room desperately for something to help. “We should probably get you sitting. Shouldn’t we? That seems sensible.”
John nodded weakly, still working to control his breathing. Sherlock reached out once more, fingers stretching toward their goal, before curling back in against clammy palms. This time, John’s need made the decision for him.
John released the wall and scrabbled for Sherlock’s other arm. Sherlock slid into him, almost groaning with the satisfaction of it. He eased his wobbly legged friend up against his side and wrapped an arm around his waist. John crumpled a little, letting Sherlock bear his weight.
Sherlock turned John gently back toward the sitting room and the comfort of the fire Mrs. Hudson had clearly laid in expectation of their return. He walked them slowly, relishing the press of John’s body and the gradual slowing of each shuddering breath. He stopped beside John’s chair and eased him down.
John sat heavily, still holding on to Sherlock’s shirtsleeve. Sherlock took one step back then, briefly considering whether he should withdraw.
“Stay,” John rasped. “Please.”
With a firm nod, Sherlock considered his options. He elected to do the most expedient thing—which would bring him closest to John—and dropped to his knees at John’s feet.
“What do I do?” he asked again, feeling lost.
This was not his area. This was what John did. Strong, brave, competent John was the one who cared for people. He was so good at it. So assured. He always made Sherlock feel safe.
“Tell me what you need.”
John grabbed for Sherlock’s right hand and pressed it into his thigh. He clasped it there and tried to smile. Sherlock returned the lop-sided effort.
They stayed that way for some time. John closed his eyes and let his head fall back. Sherlock watched him and listened to the popping of the fire and the cadence of John’s breathing. Beneath his palm, where it was pressed into John’s denim-covered thigh, he could just make out the reassuring throb of the now-slowing pulse.
Finally, at length, John blew out one last heavy breath. He lifted his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I’m not embarrassed, Sherlock.”
“Oh.”
“I’m not ashamed,” John went on. “And I’m sorry I led you to think that.”
There was an extended pause as Sherlock allowed this to sink in. “Okay.”
“The idea of you and me. Us. Men…I’m not—it’s not the first time.”
“I see,” Sherlock said evenly.
The fingers of his free hand dug into the dark wool of his trousers as an unimagined jealousy struck. He thought of John with another man. Sholto. Of course. A sharp pain flared in his chest. The women had been bad enough, but if it wasn’t being with men that John had an issue with, then that meant…
“No, you don’t,” John said, his voice still rough. He tried again to smile and this time he succeeded.
“No, I don’t.”
John was rubbing over the back of Sherlock’s hand with his thumb. “It’s not the first time I’ve been attracted to a man, but I’ve never…never done…”
Sherlock nodded awkwardly. He hoped his relief wasn’t too obvious.
“I said what I said because I didn’t want people making assumptions about my place here. With you. I’d been reduced from surgeon and soldier to—” John released a ragged breath. “God, I felt like shit when I got home from the war. I felt worthless. And I didn’t want people to think I was only along with you because we were—because I was just your charity-case boyfriend. Or your ‘live-in PA.’”
Sherlock bristled. “Did someone call you that? Who was it?”
“Never mind,” John sighed. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “After Bart’s, I couldn’t bear being cast as the grieving widower. Not when we weren’t …” He shook his head. “So, anyway, it’s not being gay. Or in my case bisexual, I guess.” John pondered this with a funny expression, as though in saying it out loud suddenly everything in the world had just settled into place.
“Right. Bisexual.”
“Yeah.”
“So you do—?” Sherlock couldn’t quite give voice to the question, but he needed the answer. He was desperate for it.
“Want you,” John finished, eyes closing once more as he dipped his chin. “God, so much, Sherlock. So much I ache with it.”
Sherlock’s mouth instantly desiccated. He couldn’t seem to form words around his thick tongue. He stared at John and tried to keep his hand still on John’s leg. He wanted nothing more than to smooth up and over the contours of John’s thigh and press into the promising heat at its apex.
“That was never it,” John continued. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, really. And I’ve wanted you for ages.”
“Then why…?”
“I’m not embarrassed, Sherlock,” John whispered.
He looked up until their eyes met. Sherlock was startled to see unshed tears.
In a voice that was more breath than sound, John said simply, “I’m terrified.”