Author's Note: No copyright infringement intended, I do not own Sherlock, its ideas, names, or characters; They are property of BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.
Song: Lullaby (Goodnight My Angel) by Billy Joel
Goodnight (My John).
John's door has been left slightly ajar tonight, Sherlock notices as he silently pads through the hallway of his flat. He briefly pauses in front of the doctor's door, listening for any signs of stirring. After a few minutes of John's even breathing, Sherlock pushes lightly on the wood and slips into his flatmate's room.
A small crack in the window coverings lets a beam of moonlight stream through the dark room and fall over the silhouette of the bed's occupant. Lying on his side, legs curled in slightly and arms drawn up, John sleeps in what Sherlock assesses to be a relatively deep sleep-which is far less than what the two flatmates have been receiving lately since the hurricane that is Jim Moriarty blew into town. He watches the good doctor's eyes fluttering under his lids, dreaming. His fingers are twitching, eyebrows furrowing down. It must be a nightmare, Sherlock thinks to himself.
With extreme delicacy, Sherlock tiptoes around the bed and lifts the covers up. He folds himself into warmth next to John and turns on his side, staring at the back of the doctor's head, his blonde hair already mussed from tossing in his sleep. Sherlock can see through the thin cotton of John's shirt the rise and fall of his shoulders, the muscles working in his back. He can feel the heat radiating from the doctor's body, erupting gooseflesh across Sherlock's cold limbs.
There is so much that Sherlock wants to tell John about. To tell him his plans, about Moriarty, about his promise with Molly. He wants to tell him that he's only going to be gone for a little while, and not to worry. That he'll be protecting the good doctor, and Molly, and Ms. Hudson, and Lestrade, and Mycroft.
He wants to tell him that he's going to miss him.
He's going to miss John's tea-he makes the way Sherlock likes it, just right-he's going to miss bickering about crappy late-night telly. He's going to miss the way John always remembers Sherlock's needs, before Sherlock remembers them himself. He's going to miss John's blogs, John's insistence on Sherlock eating daily meals.
He's going to miss John.
The way he laughs, the way he smiles, the way his nose twitches ever so slightly when he reads an article in the Daily that he disagrees with; the way he yells at those silly gameshows they watch, the way his brow creases when he's deep in though, pondering his blog, or the look of astonishment (and maybe even awe?) that crosses his face when Sherlock is hard at work. He'll miss the solidity of John. How predictable he is, how good he is.
Sherlock can smell the soap and aftershave scent that's drifting from John, his heart twinges. I'll miss that, too.
Ever since the Pool, since Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of him, Sherlock has steadily felt the weight of his heart in his chest. Moriarty saw through Sherlock's poker face with startling clarity. He saw, when John tried to distract Moriarty to help Sherlock escape, the fear in Sherlock's eyes. He almost felt as if he could measure his increased heartbeat and panic at the sight of John in a Semtex vest.
That was the first night that Sherlock let himself think it.
He loved John.
He never had really thought about loving anyone else, while sex didn't frighten him (despite Moriarty's, albeit accurate, nickname for him, "The Virgin"), emotions did. Caring for someone so much, giving them so much of you, opening yourself, vulnerability. That certainly unnerved Sherlock. The thought of rejection, especially from John, scared the bejesus out of him. That's why he'd kept his feelings a secret-how could John ever love him? They were flatmates, they were friends. John had plenty of friends, plenty of girlfriends. John was Sherlock's only friend, and it never ceased to astonish Sherlock, the depths that John went for Sherlock. The things he overlooked, the things he insisted on. He always came when Sherlock called, and at times, Sherlock even let himself wonder if, maybe, if things were different, John might love him, too.
That in some far-off realm, he could be his John.
My John, Sherlock thought to himself. He liked it, far too much.
In this moment, Sherlock so desperately wanted to wake John, to confess everything. To tell him what was going to happen, that he was scared, and most of all, that he loves him; but Sherlock knew that in order for John to be safe he had to do this alone.
Holding his breath, Sherlock scoots up to John, curves himself around the good doctor's body, allowing himself a stolen moment of happiness. When John doesn't stir, he lightly slips his arm around the other man's middle and presses his face into the base of his neck. He releases the breath he was holding, and inhales John. Sherlock's vision blurs slightly, even in the dark. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, and a concrete knot tightening in the pit of his stomach. Laying here, wrapped up next to the one that he loves, Sherlock feels the full realization of what he is going to give up. A small sob escapes his lips and he presses his face deep into the pillow to muffle his cries.
Sherlock is trying to contain himself, to enjoy this hushed moment of bliss, this intimacy taken in the dead of night. He tries to quiet himself, to stop from trembling, to keep the words I love you from tumbling out of his mouth over and over.
Sherlock stiffens and bites down hard on his lip when he feels John shift, the doctor's hand coming to rest on Sherlock's, which is still brushed across John's abdomen.
"Shhh, it's okay, Sherlock," he hears John sleepily whisper as he feels his flatmate pull Sherlock closer to him, taking the detective's hand in his own and lifting it to his mouth where he presses a kiss to his cold fingers, "Close your eyes and try to sleep. I'm here. I'm not going to let anything hurt you."
Tears rolled down Sherlock's cheeks as he bit back the wave of apologies that he so desperately wanted to release.
Instead he squeezed John's hand and whispered, "Thank you, John."
Goodnight, my John.
I love you.
A/N: So this is the first Sherlock fic that I've done. Let me know how you like it! :)