I made a promise to myself to resist fangirlism while at college. Then, Sherlock happened. *sigh* BBC, you got me again. I'm noticing a theme with BBC shows: The main character usually wears a scarf or neckerchief and is so obviously meant to be with the best friend character. First Merthur, now Johnlock! Zoinks! I wonder if Doctor Who or that Robin Hood series has a similar setup… Anyway, I typed some fluff. It's after Reichenbach, so don't read if you haven't seen it.
I'm serious. DON'T READ IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT!
This is your last chance to save yourself from spoilers.
This is your very last chance.
Okay. Everyone has seen Reichenbach now, right? Good. Let's go!
Sherlock supposed that he should have expected the blow he received to his face as he stood in the living room of 221B. The punch was a hard one, enough to cause the detective to stumble back a few steps. He cracked his neck, rubbing his cheek with a slender hand, fixing his stormy gaze on the clearly distraught face of John Watson. "Careful, John. Mrs. Hudson would not enjoy cleaning up if I fell on one of the lamps."
John stood there, sputtering inaudibly for a few seconds before responding. "D-Does she know?!"
"Yes." Sherlock nodded curtly. "We spoke extensively while you were at work. She will be taking the next few days off on paid leave. I felt that she would enjoy a vacation."
"You…" John blinked dumbly, pointing a shaky finger at his best friend. He was still trying to verify in his mind that this wasn't a specter standing in front of him. "How long…?"
"And why the bloody hell didn't you-?!" John started before being quickly interrupted.
"I figured that Mrs. Hudson would like to talk alone for awhile. Besides, telling you while you were at work would have distracted you needlessly. Since you were coming home eventually and I had no intention of leaving, it was simply better for me to wait." Sherlock somehow managed to keep his voice brisk. His eyes were rapidly scanning John, noting all physical clues to his mental and emotional state.
'There's a definite quickening of breath, signifying shock. His eyes are twitching, so he partially doesn't believe that I am really here. His hands keep clenching and unclenching, so he's half-considering punching me again. He won't, though. That first punch was delivered in such a way so that my jaw and nose weren't injured.'
"Somebody loves you... Oh, if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too." A silken female voice came unbidden to his mind. He pushed the thought away.
John shook his head slowly, the bitter taste of betrayal settling on his tongue. "Why?"
"You would have died." Sherlock replied simply. "The choice was to either die in disgrace or live without the only people I can stand to be around for a prolonged period of time." He clicked his tongue. "And that would have been tediously boring."
John took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The air trembled as it left his lungs. "Please explain."
"Moriarty had assassins with their guns trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. They were ordered to kill you if I didn't commit suicide and complete the story of Sherlock, the Fraud." The detective licked his lips, staring at the ground, his brows furrowing as he remembered the sensation of standing on that building, doomed to go down in history as a disgrace to mankind.
"Why didn't you tell me?" John looked at his best friend with hurt eyes. The fury rapidly ebbed away. He could never bring himself to remain angry at this infuriating, selfish, strange man for very long.
"Are you really that stupid?"
Never mind. There was the anger again.
"Honestly, John, you are so daft sometimes. You had to believe I was dead! You're a terrible liar; I can see right through you at any given time." Sherlock noted how John shifted uncomfortably at these words. "People had to believe I was dead. Therefore, so did you."
He saw John open his mouth to ask another question. "As to how I did it…" He cut in. "I made arrangements with Molly and my homeless network. They did some things, I did some things, and my death was faked. I really don't want to go into detail right now. It's rather boring…" He shook his head and yawned to prove his point.
"You are such…such an arse…" John whispered, his eyes welling with tears. "You know that, don't you?"
Sherlock felt a deep ache in his chest as he saw the first tear trickle down his friend's cheek. "I'm merely granting you a miracle. You asked for me to not be dead, didn't you?"
John's mouth fell open. "You were there?!" He stood there for a moment before throwing his hands into the air helplessly. "Honestly, Sherlock, I'm considering killing you myself right now!"
"No, you're not. You're happy to see me. That's clear by the way your mouth is twitching toward an upward position. Your hands are shaking with anger, but that's quickly dying away. Your breath is deep, because you are now feeling a sense of profound relief. Your feet keep shifting because you want to move closer to make sure I'm real. Am I right?" He asked that last question with a hint of smugness.
Immediately, John grew tense again, rage coursing through his veins. "You haven't changed at all, you bloody machine! Just once, spare me from your oh-so-great intellect!" He bit his lip, glancing to the side. "Please, just once…" He added in a softer voice.
Sherlock looked at John's face as he secretly fought his own inner battle.
Ever since his faked suicide, the Baker Street detective had felt an odd sensation. It had taken him a long time to place it, as he usually didn't think of sentiment as something worth pondering. Finally, it became impossible to ignore: Sherlock Holmes was lonely.
He missed the cheerful voice of Mrs. Hudson. He missed making poor, dear Lestrade half-mad with frustration and confusion. Most of all, he missed his daily routine with John at his side.
To fill the void, he kept contact with Molly. She fed him tidbits concerning the various cases that were occurring. With his homeless network, Sherlock would discreetly investigate and solve the cases, leaving the answers so that any ordinary policeman could figure them out. In a way, this had been more fun than his usual detective work: Now, he had the added challenge of solving mysteries while remaining completely undetected.
Still, whenever a case ended, Sherlock would feel that lonely sensation return. As time went on, it became an ache, a weight in his chest.
He began wishing for things he had never even considered wanting in the past: A warm body nestled in his arms when the rain came. A whispered word in his ear as he fell asleep in an empty dumpster in some back alley. A soft hand moving soothingly over his numerous bruises.
Before, he had attributed his strange desires to a natural longing for human contact. Humans are social creatures, after all. The most intelligent members of the species can long for company, even from the stupidest individuals. He had assumed that, once the media hype died down enough for him to sneak back home, the longing would go away and he would be free to continue with his new, secret detective games.
If that was the case, why was Sherlock feeling his desire increasing tenfold? Why was he suddenly overcome with the thought that he only wanted John's warmth, John's voice, and John's hand? Why did he feel such a deep, unbearable longing for John?"
John was still looking at him, his stance reserved but open. He wouldn't act aggressively if Sherlock approached. The rage was leaving him once again. He felt it flow out of him utterly as he looked at his friend's blue-gray eyes. The rage vanished and love took its place.
Pure, tender, unconditional love. John could feel his heart swelling with joy, pushing aside his feelings of betrayal, anger, and lingering sadness. It was always the same whenever he looked at the face of his best friend. Any other emotion became secondary and his heart would become cradled in Sherlock's unknowing hands. More often than not, those hands twisted his heart, wrenching it with callous words and the occasional "experiment". His heart would always heal, though, and it would always come to rest in Sherlock's deft hands once again.
There was a change in John's demeanor. For once in his life, Sherlock didn't have a name for the change. All he knew was that he wanted to know what it meant. Walking as if in a trance, he approached John. He reached his hand out, touching the doctor's warm, tear-stained cheek. Another teardrop moistened his fingertips.
"Tears of joy." Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper. "And your temperature is higher than normal." His hand traveled up to John's eyes, which fluttered closed. "Eyelids flickering. You're still frightened." He moved his hand to John's neck. "Your pulse is quickening." He pulled his hand back before touching his thumb to his friend's bottom lip.
John's breath hitched and he scrunched his eyes shut even tighter. A warm, tingly shock went down his spine and a small sob rose in his throat. He moved his lips slightly, touching a kiss to the pad of Sherlock's thumb.
Sherlock gasped quietly despite himself. A warm sensation was spreading, spreading from his chest, filling him entirely. All of a sudden, his dormant desires came to light and refused to be denied. He moved his forefinger so that it was under John's chin. More tears fell from those dark eyes and Sherlock brushed them away with his other hand. John made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, suppressing another sob. "Shh…" Sherlock whispered, feeling his own face melt into an uncharacteristically gentle expression. "Shh…"
When John's eyes locked with his, Sherlock felt his heart burst. Those teary eyes were warm, inviting, and glittering with something other than liquid manifests of sadness and joy. It was a glow, a glow that was begging Sherlock to move in further, to…
His lips brushed oh-so-lightly against John's. Then, they touched again. Once. Twice. Three times, their lips met.
When Sherlock pulled back, he saw that the twitching of John's eyelids was increasing. He brushed a slender forefinger against his friend's cheek. 'Where are these gestures coming from? How do I know to do this?' He wondered briefly before filing the thought away with other trivial matters. "Don't be frightened, John." He murmured, touching his lips to those fluttering eyelids. "It's alright. I'm not going anywhere."
"I love you." John sighed, opening his eyes and guiding Sherlock's lips back to his. "I love you so much." He pulled Sherlock close and kissed him deeply.
Sherlock's mind seemed to lose all ability to think and he found himself clutching John tightly, tilting his head and returning the kiss to the best of his ability. He felt John nibble gently at his bottom lip and groaned softly.
'Love…' He should have realized it sooner! He still remembered the long-dead feeling he had once held for The Woman. He remembered how his heart had burned with some strange, hellish fire. This fire was similar in some ways, but different in many. This was the gentle fire of a hearth, a place Sherlock wanted to be able to return to every day for the rest of his life.
"I…" He wet his lips nervously and glanced to the side. "I…I lo…I love you too, John." He mumbled, earning a tender kiss on the forehead.
Somehow, the two ended up on the couch. Sherlock was pressed into the soft cushions as John kissed his mind into a sweet, blissful oblivion. His lips were as soft as velvet, moving gently against his. Tongues gently stroked and halfheartedly fought for dominance. Hands roamed, moving under fabric to caress scars, burns, bruises, and old injuries. John's voice was a low croon as he leaned down to whisper sweetly into Sherlock's ear.
Sherlock closed his eyes. The words John was saying were utter nonsense, of course. Still, they made him smile in a manner that no one else was likely to ever see.
John eventually drew back, his eyes smoldering tenderly. "What do my physical signals say now?"
Sherlock pondered for a moment before wordlessly holding out his arms. John fit perfectly against him and was so warm as he snuggled close. He nestled his face in the crook of John's neck, sighing as the doctor bent his head to nuzzle shy kisses into his hair.
For the rest of the night, they talked quietly. Sometimes, they would hold each other in silence. Other times, Sherlock would whisper another explanation concerning the conundrum of his faked death. Other times, they settled for simply repeating three words back and forth, neither one growing tired of hearing them.
Yeah, those two are freaking adorable! I wonder if BBC enjoys teasing us with these amazingly perfect slash couples that they never actually make official. I bet they do; those sick, sick English people… And we all love it! Let's face it. Peace out! ^_^