London is starting to wake up and the sky is just between night and day when John and Sherlock finally, FINALLY return home. It’s a good thing I am no longer able to bite my nails, because they would have been bitten down to the quick by now. The past hours of waiting have been torture, so seeing them both back here in one piece gives me more joy than I can put into words.
They look exhausted and John has got a cut on his forehead, but apart from that they appear to be fine. I hope Sarah is okay, as well. She isn’t with them, not that I can blame her. After facing off against Chinese assassins and being abducted all in one night, I’d want to go home and rest up, too.
The living room is painted in warm colours from the first rays of sunlight, bathing John‘s silhouette in a soft glow as he walks over towards the windows. He is quiet while his eyes trace the yellow symbols on the glass. Sherlock is still lingering in the doorway, watching his every move, as if he was scared John would vanish the second he didn’t have him within his sight.
The soft words cause John to glance over his shoulder at him. Sherlock quickly averts his eyes, pretending he has been staring at the graffiti the entire time.
S: That’s what it says. Dead Man.
John turns around again to inspect the scribbles once more.
J: That’s going to be a pain to get rid off.
He sighs and drags a hand over his face. When his fingers graze the wound on his forehead he flinches back. He lowers his hand and regards the red stains of blood on his fingers in surprise, as if he had forgotten all about it.
Sherlock seems to snap back to the present at that. He focuses on John’s injury with an unreadable expression on his face, lips pressed into a thin line.
In three long strides he is across the room and crowding in next to him to take a closer look at the cut. John startles a little when careful fingers push back a few wisps of his hair that have gotten caught in the slowly drying blood, but holds still nonetheless.
S: First we need to get this cleaned. Where is your medical kit?
J: Upstairs, on the chair by the door. But you don’t have to...
His voice trails off, because his flatmate is already halfway up the stairs. With a shake of his head he shrugs out of his jacket and takes a seat on one of the kitchen chairs. He has barely had time to make space on the table when Sherlock returns with the bag.
It’s a strange mirror of the last instance they had to use the medical kit, except this time their places are reversed, with John sitting here quietly, watching Sherlock spread out the medical supplies to see to his wound.
J: You know what you are doing?
It’s said in a teasing tone, causing Sherlock’s lips to twitch at the corners, aware of the irony of the situation.
S: I might not be a doctor, John, but I am well-versed in first aid. So yes. I know what I am doing.
A small chuckle escapes from John, who holds up his hands in a placating manner before they lapse back into silence. Sherlock doesn’t have to search long to find the package of disinfectant wipes. After cleaning his hands with them, he pulls out a fresh one and steps in front of John. Then he hesitates.
He twirls one finger in a circle, indicating for him to turn around in his seat, so he doesn’t have to lean over him to be able to reach the wound.
Comes the mumbled reply, quickly followed by another self-deprecating chuckle.
J: I’m not used to being on this side of things.
Sherlock leans in closer to get a better look. Wordlessly, he reaches out with one hand and delicately starts to dab away the crusted blood, while he uses his other hand to keep John’s hair from falling back down over the cut. As soon as he notices the discomfort on John’s scrunched up face, his previously sure fingers falter.
J: It’s okay. Can’t be helped.
With one hand still holding up John’s hair, Sherlock discards the now dirty wipe and pulls out a fresh one. He is about to resume his task, when John’s phone beeps.
Careful not to move his head, John fishes it out of his pocket and holds it up to read the new text message. He sighs and types out a quick reply. Sherlock remains quiet during this short exchange, fingers playing with the piece of cotton in his hand, while he waits patiently until John puts the device away.
J: Yeah. I told her to text me when she got home. She just got in. Said she is going to stay at a friend’s place for the day to rest up.
Sherlock nods and finishes cleaning the cut, but his posture has tensed up. Since he can’t afford to let go of John’s strands of hair without risking having to start all over again, he is left with only one hand to open the box of butterfly plasters. He is on his third try when John takes pity on him and snatches it out of his fingers. Swiftly, he pulls open the lid and waves one of the bandage strips in Sherlock’s direction.
J: You don’t care for her all that much, do you?
S: Who, Sarah? Whatever gave you that impression?
His voice is nonchalant as he secures the first plaster over the damaged skin and takes the second one John is already holding out for him.
J: Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the way you’ve been either ignoring or needling her all evening long?
S: I did nothing of the sort.
Sherlock grumbles as he slides the bandage into place. He waggles his fingers at John for one more strip, but refuses to meet his miffed expression. John huffs out an exasperated breath and shoves the plaster into Sherlock’s hand.
J: Please. With all your pestering, you had her thinking you were jealous.
John’s words were infused with good-natured bafflement, but Sherlock freezes nonetheless. His grip goes slack and the bandage slips from his fingers. It is saved from falling to the ground by John’s quick reflexes, who is visibly surprised by the sudden fumble. Before he has time to speak up, though, Sherlock has already snatched it up again and is securing it over the last exposed bit of the cut.
John is blinking up at him, brow furrowed in question as he waits for an explanation. He is all patched up now, so Sherlock should step back out of his personal space and let go of his forehead, but his hands and legs seem to be refusing to cooperate. Instead, he lingers a beat longer, fingers gliding one more time over the edges of the bandages, as if to make sure they will hold in place. A regretful frown ghosts over his face.
S: I like her just fine. She can hold her own and she is very...perceptive.
The last word is no louder than the drop of a pin and probably wasn’t even meant to be said out loud, but with Sherlock standing so close, John hears it anyway. Then the deeper meaning of the unexpected compliment begins to sink in. His eyes grow wide, mouth falling open with no sound coming out.
Too late, Sherlock realises his mistake and startles back. John’s hair slips from his fingers and he is about to draw away, but John is quicker and grabs his wrist before he has time to retreat more than a step.
He sounds breathless and a little surprised by his own actions. Over the past weeks he has been so careful not to initiate any contact between them, apart from a friendly pat on the back every once in a while.
One word. One tiny word was all it took to shatter his resolve. His eyes are roaming over Sherlock’s now closed off face, trying to pierce through his mask.
Sherlock is refusing to meet his searching gaze. The muscles in his arm have tensed up, yet he doesn’t put up any real resistance against John’s grip, just stands there, stuck.
J: What did you just say?
Sherlock’s throat seems to be clenching up in trepidation, because his voice is gravely and clipped when he answers.
J: And I said no. Not, unless you answer my question.
In one last display of defiance, Sherlock gives a half-hearted tug and John, true to his word, doesn’t let go, just softens his hold. He has gotten up from his chair by now, standing there with nowhere to go like a man at the end of his rope.
At the whispered words, Sherlock’s shoulders slump in defeat. Slowly, he turns, finally daring to look up and meet John’s pleading gaze.
S: It’s not that I don’t like her. I just...
He closes his eyes and licks his lips, struggling to put his thoughts into words. The fingers holding him in place loosen even further and slide down his arm to grasp his hand. His throat bobs while he hesitates, then he unclenches his fist and allows their fingers to intertwine.
S: I don’t like seeing her with you.
John huffs out a staggered breath, face open with hopefulness and fearful disbelieve. He mirrors Sherlock’s earlier gesture by softly tugging on his hand, only this time it’s not to create distance between them, but to pull him closer.
Sherlock is caught off guard and stumbles forward, hand landing on John’s shoulder to keep his balance. He pulls it back, as if burned, apology ready on his lips.
J: Hey, it’s fine. It’s all fine, okay?
There is a new warmth and fondness in John’s voice, which I’ve never heard him use before. Sherlock blinks at him in surprise, nods and can’t seem to look away.
They stare at each other, neither of them sure how to proceed. Unexpectedly, Sherlock is the first one to move. He inches closer, emboldened by the reassurance, and lets go of John’s hand to raise his arms towards him. John is holding his breath, body motionless, while two hands curl around his shoulders as Sherlock envelopes him in a tentative embrace.
After a few seconds John dares to reciprocate. Making sure to telegraph his every move, he wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist. He is met with no resistance, so he gradually brings them closer together, until there is no space left between them. Sherlock tenses up slightly, but when John’s warmth begins to seep into him, he lets out a long breath and settles further into the hug.
S: I don’t know how to do this. I want to, but it’s just so...
He breaks off with an annoyed grunt. John huffs out a laugh and presses a tiny peck to his shoulder.
J: Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure it out.
After that, no words are spoken. Their calm breaths and the muffled noises of London’s waking up streets are the only sounds in the room as they relax into each other.
