Chapter Text
John Hamish Watson was not an unintelligent man, despite the best efforts of Sherlock Holmes to convince him otherwise. John figured that anyone who’d excelled in medical school and then spent a number of years patching up battered soldiers with limited supplies under battlefield conditions couldn’t really be that much of an idiot. He had to at least possess a modicum of ingenuity. Possibly a capacity to retain pertinent factual information, and maybe the ability to apply it, even under stress. Surely that required half a brain, said John Hamish Watson to himself, on frequent occasion, and usually directly after having witnessed one of his flatmate’s effortless (and brilliant, amazing, extraordinary) deductions. My brain may not be the specimen his is, he’d counter, to himself, but at least I’m not stupid.
Unfortunately, John and Sherlock tended to differ just slightly on the definition of the word stupid, which, according to the Sherlock Oxford English Dictionary, was defined as any individual person whose brain does not process given data as quickly, efficiently, and correctly as my own. This dissonance of cognitive abilities inevitably led to the following dynamic: Sherlock would sit at the kitchen table staring through the lens of his microscope at an element of some ongoing experiment. John would mull over a pressing question in his not unintelligent mind, and then mutter some sort of conclusion. Sherlock would ignore John, his question, and his conclusion, pretend John had never spoken, and continue to stare at said microscopic element. Eventually John’s bedtime would ensue. At no point would John ever expect an actual response to a muttered conclusion.
Which is why, on one particular winter’s night, when once again the world outside was flat and grey against a dying fire, and a hundred thousandth cup of tea had gone stone-cold halfway, John was surprised to find that a muttered conclusion had garnered a response. He had been mulling over a pressing question; the same one he’d been mulling over since the first of his possessions had been carried from his abysmal pensioner’s flat over to 221B Baker St. The question that’d been niggling at the back of his brain since he’d first set eyes on the lovely leather sofa, the worn Oriental rug, and the varied textural detritus of Sherlock Holmes’ life. The question that had visions of swirling wool and bespoke tailoring, jewel-tone silk and apple-scented shampoo swimming before his senses.
“Can’t be a virgin,” he’d muttered, “Too much of a sensualist.” And that was when John Hamish Watson’s very intelligent world went sideways.
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“What?” Sherlock’s alien green eyes snapped up from his microscope and out across the room. John, unaccustomed to the sound of reciprocated conversation and thus not glancing up from his thoughts replied, “Hmm?”
“You said, ‘Can’t be a virgin, too much of a sensualist.’ To whom were you referring?”
John didn’t answer. To his credit, this was not because he was embarrassed by the question, but simply because it had not yet occurred to him that Sherlock was actually speaking. As such, he continued to stare off into a far corner and draw increasingly uncomfortable conclusions.
“John? John!” Sherlock stood, started across the room, stopped, regathered, and started again. “JOHN.”
John’s brain finally acknowledged that Sherlock was speaking, but endeavored to brush it off in favor of the continued mental disentanglement of the present issue. He waved a distracted hand in the general direction of the noise and shushed it. To his irritation, he could not ignore the hand-tooled leather shoe, along with its very long accompanying foot, that somehow found itself wedged in the chair-space between his legs, its owner looming directly over his cranium.
“I asked, ‘to whom were you referring?’”
Blue eyes met green without hesitation. “Erm, you. Actually.” He had meant it as a simple fact, and had not meant to set his jaw with such defiance, and so was unprepared for the wild fear he saw reflected in those normally cold and emotionless orbs. Immediately the leather-clad foot was on the floor and its owner was escaping back into the kitchen.
“Sherlock? Sherlock! Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was speaking aloud.”
“What you don’t realize, John, happens far too often for comment,” snapped Sherlock. He sat himself back down on the stool and stared back into the microscope for utter salvation. “And I was simply curious. Go to bed. You have your own mundane work in the morning, and I have rather pressing work now. Goodnight.” He bit off the closing letter with a snap that ricocheted around the flat.
“Uh.. no.”
Sherlock risked a peripheral glance. John had adopted his war stance. Shit.
“What do you mean ‘uh, no’”. Bored, sneering. Normally enough to put John off till morning. Another peripheral glance; John wasn’t having it. Damn it.
“What I mean, Sherlock, is ‘no’. Not until you tell me what the hell that whole thing was about.”
“What whole ‘thing’, John?” Feign innocence. Or at least ignorance. Continue to stare at specimen as if human existence depended on it.
“You never hear me when you’re busy.” John raised an eyebrow that Sherlock pretended not to see. “You ignore me completely. Hell, you barely listen to me while we’re on a case, much less when we’re just dicking around at home after.”
“Language, John.” Maybe some delicate and offended sensibilities?
John sniffed out a laugh. “Language, Sherlock? Considering half the names you call your posh toff of a brother on a daily basis--”
“Fine!”
John dropped his arms to his sides. “Fine?”
My God, but this was the finest and most fascinating specimen to ever come under a magnifying lens. “Yes, fine, John. If you must know, and it seems you must considering you won’t leave me the hell alone, I suffer from synesthesia. It’s a little-studied neurological disorder--”
But John had dropped all physical indicators of war stance and was now leaning against the table. “Christ, Sherlock. You’re a synesthete? Why didn’t I...”
“Because you’re an-”
“Don’t. Don’t call me an idiot. I know what synesthesia is, I just never thought to apply it to you. You’re so-”
“So what, John?” Sherlock met John’s eyes in undisguised challenge. “So distant? Closed- off? Cold?” He stared back into the microscope, feeling more like the specimen than the observer. “Since you think you know what synesthesia is, I’m sure you can draw your own conclusions as to why a person with such a condition might want to surround themselves with possessions that provide a pleasing sensory atmosphere even while pursuing a somewhat ascetic lifestyle. When I said I was married to my work, I meant it. The condition occasionally aids the work as far as the retention of information, John, but not when it’s exacerbated by external influences that overwhelm its capacity for usefulness. Hence, yes, I am a virgin, in that I have never experienced sexual relations with another person, primarily because the sense of touch gives off the most concentrated amount of cross-sensory information, and is thus the most distracting. Now, if you would kindly shove off and go to bed, I could perhaps actually get around to getting something accomplished.”
But John did not shove off and go to bed. Instead, to Sherlock’s increasing anguish (although he would never, ever show it), he pulled up a chair and sat down. Very close. And with eyes that burned a hole or three.
“No.”
Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deep in what he hoped was nothing more than a show of extreme annoyance. “I do not wish to discuss this further. Good on you, making a semi-deduction about me, even though you got more than half of it wrong. Here: you’re not the single dullest person I’ve ever met. Happy? Go to bed.”
John did not move even a quarter of an inch, and yet suddenly seemed to be even closer.
“No.”
“John-”
“No. Sorry, Sherlock. Not getting out of this that easily. You’re thirty-five years old. You’ve never been with... anyone? At all? In any physical capacity?”
Sherlock suddenly stood, knocking over both the microscope and the infinitely fascinating slide. “No, John, I have not. And I have just told you why.”
John didn’t so much as bat an eyelash, but sat perfectly still right where he was. “Because touch, or too much touch, makes you batty.”
“I give you permission to laugh if it will end this tedious conversation.”
John blinked and furrowed his blond brow. “Because touch provides you with an over-abundance of data.”
Sherlock touched a long finger to his now-aching brow. “As I have previously stated,” he bit through clenched teeth.
“Because... oh.” John smiled. Sherlock’s heart stuttered but he pulled a calm face. “Don’t flatter yourself, John, you can’t possibly--”
“That’s why you call yourself an asexual and pretend to be a sociopath.” John grinned up at Sherlock who whitened noticeably.
“I don’t- I never- I AM! You- I never pretend”, spat Sherlock, now reaching code-red levels of desperation which manifested itself in an honest endeavor to make tea.
John just continued grinning. “Yeah, you do. You pretend to be asexual so that you’re not expected to touch anyone. And you pretend to be a sociopath so no one will be tempted to touch you!” For a moment he seemed right chuffed to have made such a logical step in thinking. Then he registered the look on Sherlock’s face. It was pale even beyond Sherlock’s standards of pale, and it was hollow and pinched. He looked like a punctured balloon. John’s grin faded on the spot and he rose to his feet.
“Sherlock. Sher- I’m..”
“Oh, for God’s sakes!” Sherlock threw the boiling kettle at the wall. It landed on the floor with a thunk and a hiss, steaming. “I neither need nor want your pity. Now, if it’s not too much for your tiny little brain to comprehend, I really would very much appreciate it if you would GO TO BED.”
John didn’t flinch. Not at the kettle hitting the wall, not at the steaming water pouring out onto the floor, not at Sherlock’s acid words. What he did do was nod, say “alright, then,” and pad over to where Sherlock was standing braced against the kitchen counter for the impending onslaught.
He then cupped Sherlock’s left cheek, kissed him softly just beside his right eye, and walked very calmly up the stairs to his room without so much as a backward glance. Sherlock did not watch him go- could not have watched him go- because Sherlock’s world had suddenly gone pulsating yellow ribbons of June sunshine and ripe lemons that stole the air out of his lungs with the force of a thrown blow.
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John opened one eye at his blaring alarm clock and groaned. He was tempted to stay right where he was, enveloped in the safe, warm cocoon of his duvet, but he shook the thought off at once. Best to face the music and get it done with. He climbed out of bed, slipped on a dressing gown, and punched the number to the surgery into his phone. The voicemail system picked up.
“Sarah, hello, it’s John. Listen... I’m really sorry about this, but I’m not going to make it in this morning. We’re in... well, there’s a bit of a crisis at the moment and I’m afraid it wouldn’t do to wait and deal with it later. The appointment schedule was light last I looked, but if things get busy, give me a call. I really am sorry. Ta.”
John shook his head in amazement that he still had a job at all considering how many times he’d left similar messages for his boss. Sarah was a saint and an angel- it was the only logical conclusion. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to mentally prepare at least a little for what he was about to face. Best case scenario: Sherlock would act as if nothing in the world had happened the night before and it would never be mentioned by either party again. Worst case scenario: Sherlock would coldly give him his walking papers and tell him not to let the door hit his arse on the way out. Every scenario in between involved loudly silent sulks, loudly loud strops, quite a lot of violin scraping, and increasingly sarcastic assaults on John’s intelligence/ competence/ visual faculties, a few days after all of which an unspoken truce would be declared and equilibrium reestablished within the Democratic Republic of Baker Street.
In fact, John thought he might actually prefer the option in between better than the best case scenario, and it was certainly preferable to worst case. He really didn’t want to think of life without Sherlock- he knew that life and it had been terrible- so he banished it, took a deep breath to steady himself, and headed through the door and down the stairs.
When he reached the kitchen, he stopped and blinked. He didn’t know in what state exactly he’d expected to find Sherlock, but it certainly wasn’t the one in which he actually found him.
The very tall man, looking smaller than John could have ever imagined he could, was curled up like a baby on the kitchen floor in the exact spot where John had left him, hands clasped underneath his curly brown head, still in last night’s clothes. His eyes were puffy, the delicate skin around them red and inflamed, and there were salty tracks trailing down his cheeks and disappearing into his neck.
John Hamish Watson felt his heart blow out of his chest and shatter into a million Sherlock-shaped pieces.
“Oh, Sherlock,” he closed his eyes against the sting of his own tears and shook his head. “Not the Tin Man after all, are we...”
John had every intention of slipping quietly back up the stairs in order to spare his tear-stained flatmate the indignity of waking up to find his humanity exposed, but just as he turned to go, Sherlock stirred and sat up. He looked up at John, his expression inscrutable. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep.”
John sighed out a quick breath. “Sherlock, I apologize. I had no right to press about something so personal, and certainly no right to invade your space the way I did. I’m sorry.”
Sherlock simply continued to gaze up at him. “Are you apologizing on the behalf of my feelings, or do you regret your actions? I need to know which.” His voice was calm, his tone even. The question held neither fire nor ice.
John considered the question for a moment, then said, “The former. I don’t regret having shown you affection, Sherlock. I’m an affectionate man, especially when it comes to someone I truly care for. And this may be too much for you to hear, but I need to say it. I do truly care for you. So no, I don’t regret my actions. I do regret having caused you... well, discomfort.”
Sherlock nodded, took a slightly ragged breath, and stood up. He crossed the kitchen and stopped a few feet away from John. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“... Okay.”
“But before I do, I have something to say to you as well. When I’ve finished, you can do with the information what you will. If you choose to leave, I will understand. If that is what you choose, I would only ask that you do so quickly and give me a chance to get out of the flat before you come back to collect your things.”
“Sherlock, what the hell! I’m not- why on earth would you think I’d walk out?” John felt icy dread pool in his stomach. He felt sick. This was worse than anything his imagination had come up with.
“John, please let me finish. Then you’ll understand. But I need to say this now.”
John inhaled swiftly and let the air out slowly. “Okay. I’m listening.” And dying, thought John. Listening and dying.
Sherlock slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and focused on a rather fascinating spot on the kitchen floor.
“Here it is, then: You were right. About everything. The ‘sociopath’ and ‘asexual’ labels are my defenses. I hope you will at least try to understand why I feel I need them. I hope that the work I do- we do- is of value to at least a few people, and I can’t imagine being able to do that work if I had to worry about constant assaults on my senses. Besides, there has never been anyone I cared about enough to warrant a physical relationship, considering my... issue. If it ever were to happen, it would have to be with someone I trusted implicitly. People may like to talk about how enlightened and lacking in sexual hangups they are, but I imagine it’s different when faced with someone quite literally coming undone in front of them. I can tell you, John... I would fall apart.”
John swallowed hard and blushed hot at the mental image that had just invaded his brain.
“My main point is this,” Sherlock continued, but not before a noticeable swallow of his own. “When you put your hand on my cheek and your lips on my face, I had... It was... beautiful. It was one of the most breathtaking sensory reactions I’ve ever experienced. The brilliance of it shook me. I, erm... I got an erection.” Sherlock blushed and continued avoiding John’s eyes.
“I suppose what I’m trying and failing to say is that you are the only person with whom I can ever imagine myself being... physical. But I know you’re straight, and you don’t see me in that way. As I’m sure you could clearly see when you walked in, I have already allowed myself to process the loss of your companionship. And as I said before, please allow me to not have to actually watch you go.”
With that, he escaped quickly into the keep that was the bathroom, leaving John gaping like a fish and staring after him. Apparently John’s heart had mended back together just enough to shatter a second time. But then a flame of something like hope licked up into the cavity of his chest. And right then and there, John Hamish Watson- being nothing if not an intelligent man- gathered up everything he’d ever thought about the nature of his own sexuality, tossed it unceremoniously in the kitchen bin, and set off down the hall.
He briefly considered fetching the lock-pick set from Sherlock’s bedroom, but when he tried the bathroom door, he found it unlocked. He pushed the door open noiselessly. Was it possible for a person’s heart to break three times over in a fifteen minute span of time? John thought it must be, because the sight of Sherlock braced on his forearms against the shower wall, head in his hands and heaving shuddering sobs, did John in yet again.
“Sherlock, you thick idiot,” he hitched out. Sherlock turned with an utterly stunned expression as John quickly removed his clothing, opened the shower door, and stepped in.
“Oi, shove over. You’re hogging the spray,” he smiled.
“... John?”
“In the flesh.” John snickered. “Er, all of it, it would seem.”
Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, and then tried again.
“But you’re... here.”
John rolled his eyes. “Your powers of deduction are truly stunning. Yes, I’m here. Here in the shower, in fact. Here, in the shower, with you.”
Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. “John, what does… this mean.”
“Sherlock, look at me. Come on. Look at me.” Hesitantly, Sherlock obeyed, and met John’s eyes with his own, looking a bit like someone awaiting a verdict where the only two possibilities were death sentence or acquittal.
John shook his head. “It means, Sherlock, that I want you, too. It means, you insane, gorgeous bastard, that if you want my body, it’s yours, but you’re going have to take my heart along with it, because God help me, that’s yours too, and I can’t believe it took me this bloody long to see it. It means that not only am I not leaving but that if you ever want me gone you’re going to have to call Lestrade and tell him to bring the team along because there’s no way that would ever happen unless it was over my dead body.”
Sherlock’s mouth fell open. John laughed in spite of himself.
“It also means, Sherlock Holmes, that your trust in me is very wisely placed, because we will go at whatever pace you set, do only what it is you’re comfortable doing, and when and if you say no to anything, I will stop immediately with no questions asked. In fact, I ask only one thing of you- well, two things, but they’re related.”
Sherlock, mouth still agape, nodded at him to continue.
“First thing is, I want you to describe to me what you experience, whatever it is, when we’re… together.”
Sherlock closed his mouth and swallowed, but nodded his acquiescence. “And the second?” he asked, breathily.
“I want you to tell me what you experienced last night. When I touched you. I want to know.”
Sherlock shivered, not entirely just because the water had gone stone-cold. “All right. But… can we talk about this dry and clothed and possibly over tea?” He smiled for the first time that morning, and the brilliance of it made John laugh with pure, unmitigated joy.
“That sounds like a wonderful plan. Declarations of love really shouldn’t involve freezing one’s arse off.”
“Declarations of…”
“Love, yes. That’s what I said. Now get out, dry off, and put on some damn clothes before I’m forced to retract the bit about going at your pace, you gorgeous prat.”