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“He’s different, isn’t he?” Greg murmured, raising his eyebrow at John as the latter’s phone buzzed on the table with yet another text from Sherlock.
John nodded, glancing down at the words on the screen. He rolled his eyes, pushing the phone away without replying.
“Yep,” John said, taking a drink of his pint. “And I have no idea what to make of any of it.”
“Is he so… clingy all the time now?”
John nodded tiredly. “He wants to know where I am every second of the day, and when I’m within his sight, he’s stuck to me. Personal space was never something that I could enjoy before, but now… it’s literally nonexistent.”
The phone buzzed again on the bar, making John sigh. Draining what was left in his glass, he looked apologetically at Greg.
“Sorry, mate. He’s not going to stop until I go home.”
“We’ve been here half an hour, he’s texted you thirty six times, John. You need to speak to him.”
“I’ve tried. I think… I think he thinks that he needs to make up for lost time or something. You know, for the two years that he was away. I’ve told him that it’s better to just move on and try and get back to normal, but hell, who knows how Sherlock’s mind actually works.”
“Good point. Alright, mate, well, good luck, I guess.”
John gave a tired smile, clapping Greg on the shoulder briefly before he left the bar.
On my way home. Twenty minutes. JW
The replying text was with him in seconds.
Take a cab. SH
Rolling his eyes, John put the phone in his pocket and continued his walk, knowing that he was being childish but not really caring. For the past few months—or more or less since Sherlock’s return from the ‘dead’—his best friend had been confusing, to say the least.
He hadn’t been lying when he told Greg that Sherlock was forever entering John’s personal space. Whenever they were together, and especially when they were alone, Sherlock had no qualms with hugging John, or lying all over him on the sofa.
He held his hand when they were in cabs, he’d even climbed into bed with John a couple of times, when the nightmares had been really bad.
John wasn’t completely against the new closeness, but it was stirring up confusing feelings in him that he didn’t really know what to do with. He wasn’t sure how much of it was Sherlock’s proximity, and how much of it was just sexual frustration.
With Sherlock’s demanding nature being turned up by ten notches, he’d had zero success in any dating that he’d bothered trying, and honestly, he’d given up completely now. If he couldn’t even go to the pub for an hour with a friend, then a date, or even the possibility of an overnight stay with a woman, was completely out of the question.
Sherlock was waiting for John when he arrived, and impatiently pulled him onto the sofa as soon as he’d shed his jacket and shoes.
“Bloody hell, Sherlock, what’s the rush?” John choked out, a little breathless from the way his back hit the back of the sofa. Sherlock didn’t bother to reply, his head dropping onto John’s lap as his arms wound their way around John’s thighs.
“I missed you,” Sherlock murmured, so quietly John almost didn’t hear him.
“I told you that you could come with me,” John reminded him, his hand falling into the mess of curls on Sherlock’s head.
“Can’t do this at the pub.”
John snorted, his eyes moving to the television screen. “No, I don’t suppose you could.”
Clearly taking that as a sign that he’d won, Sherlock snuggled his face into John a little and settled in to watch the television. They remained that way until John’s head started to fall, his eyes closing of their own volition.
“Let me up, Sherlock, I’m ready for bed.”
Grumbling, Sherlock moved slowly, sitting up, John barely held his laughter at the sight the younger man made, his hair flattened on one side of his head. He raised a hand to fluff his hair, smiling slightly when Sherlock leant into his hand.
“Goodnight, Sherlock.”
“Night, John.”
…
John was shocked away when his bedroom door flew open. Sitting up, his hand automatically went to his bedside table where he kept his gun, before he saw a wild eyed Sherlock staring at him, breathing harshly, tears on his face.
“Sherlock?”
“They shot you, John, they shot you right in front of me, and I couldn’t stop them, and you died, you were dead, there was no pulse, and the blood, and you were dead, and—”
John cut Sherlock’s rambling off by lifting up the opposite side of the quilt to where he was sleeping, gesturing for Sherlock to climb into the bed, which he did without hesitation. John raised his arm, letting Sherlock lay his ear against the calming heartbeat in his chest.
“I’m fine, Sherlock, we’re both fine, it was just a nightmare, okay? Not real,” he comforted, quietly. Sherlock shifted closer to him, his arm looping over John’s stomach.
John buried his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, his other hand stroking calming patterns on Sherlock’s back.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Sherlock shook his head, his nose resting in John’s neck, inhaling his scent deeply. Sure that they were settled for the night, John closed his eyes, concentrating on keeping his breathing even.
He knew that Sherlock would sync his own breathing with John’s, and it was the quickest and easiest way to get the genius to sleep after a nightmare.
“John?”
“Hmm?”
“You know that I love you, right?”
“Hmm? Course. I love you too, Sherlock. Get some rest, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay. Thank you, John.”
John smiled slightly, tugging the blanket further around them. He’d never admit it outside of his own head, but he usually slept much better with Sherlock beside him, wrapped around him. He wasn’t too sure what was happening between them at the moment, but he was beginning to think that he was open to any possibility.
…
Time passed by as time was wont to do. Sherlock remained clingy, and John got used to it, even relished in the physical contact that had blossomed between them.
Life was good.
And then John got shot.
…
The beeping told John where he was before he’d even opened his eyes. The hospital room was standard; white everywhere, but thankfully private. Sherlock sat in the chair beside him, leaning forward on the bed, his eyes red rimmed.
“What happened?” John asked, reaching out to run his hand through Sherlock’s hair.
“I thought you’d died,” Sherlock whispered. “The bullet grazed your side, you’ll be okay, but we didn’t have time to eat before Lestrade called us in, remember? The shock knocked you out.”
John nodded, pulling the sheets down to get a look at the padding on his side. A graze was nothing to worry about, he knew. A couple of weeks of pain and taking it easy, and he would be fine. He was more worried about what it had done to Sherlock’s mental state.
“How are you doing?” he asked, softly.
Sherlock was leaning into the hand in his hair, his eyes closed.
“I’ve died a thousand deaths since that gunshot,” Sherlock murmured. “I thought…” he shook his head. “Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?”
John smiled. “Of course I do. You mean just as much to me, you know?”
“I don’t… you know that I don’t really get involved with sentiment,” Sherlock said. “But… I am so in love with you, John Watson. You scare the life out of me, because if anything happens to you, my life will cease having any meaning. I need you more than I need oxygen.”
John shuffled over the bed, wincing when he pulled at his stitches.
“Come up here,” he said, tugging Sherlock’s hair gently.
Not needing to be told twice, Sherlock clambered onto the bed, taking care not to jostle John too much as he settled down beside him, pushing his arm underneath John’s neck so that he could cradle him into his side.
“This is who we are, Sherlock. This, and maybe more than this, and that’s all fine too, okay? We’re together, and we’ll always be together.”
“I love you,” Sherlock whispered, pressing his lips to John’s temple.
“I love you too. Go to sleep. Hopefully when we wake up, they’ll be ready to let me leave.”
“And we can go home?”
“Uh huh. We’ll go home, and we’ll lie on the sofa, and we’ll eat Thai food, and we’ll watch bad tv. Okay?”
“Okay.”