“It’s a nice room, this.”
John waved around, his aim unclear, but Sherlock understood anyway. He nodded shortly. Then, he went and put a box of letters on one of the already overflowing tables and put off his coat as well. John turned and saw THE letter Sherlock had pinned at the wall.
“Oh, yes,” confirmed Sherlock. “It is the letter, the one that started it all.”
Silently, as if there was a secret bond between them, they started to reread the now familiar lines. Instantly, as if it was their letters, their story, their love, Sherlock took over Gilbert’s part and John voiced Gordon. For a flicker of a moment, they were not unsung anymore, they came to live, bright and full of hope, fierce and proud, two men out of time:
“Darling, Darling”, Gilbert said, “We are in a pretty ghastly time, I know. But we are in for it together, my dearest love. I want to be with you, always, and it is all going to be okay and we have each other and love each other more. Won’t we? Won’t we?”
“Yes”, clinging to him, Gordon said, “we will, won’t we. So that something rather wonderful will come out of it all.”
“I promise you, it will”, Gilbert said, “You will see. As long as we together.” “That’s right,” Gordon, said, “Being together is everything.”
For a minute or two, there was silence, not awkward or tense; it was companionable. As if they had been old friends, even maybe more than that, life partners, incarnations, going back decades or even centuries, and that it had been always been like that: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in 221b Baker Street in London, sitting in two chairs in front of a fireplace.
Then John cleared his throat and asked “How did you get hold of the letter?”
“I got someone to duplicate it for me. Do you remember when we met?”
“We had a row, didn’t we?”
“We did. In fact,” Sherlock said, “there is scarcely an occasion in which we have met when we haven’t got a row. Why is that, do you suppose?”
“I guess I’m rather defensive.”
“For a rather long time I rather thought you simply disliked me,” Sherlock heard himself admitting. His voice sounded odd to himself, quiet and unsure, a mirror of his inner workings.
“No, you rather got under my guard.”
And before Sherlock could explain, reply, whatever, John had pulled down his hand and put it against his lips. Everything Sherlock had ever felt, every frisson had just be a preparation for this moment when his hand melted against his lips. Presently, he found himself leaning over him. He still held his hand like a talisman. Sherlock took John’s face between his hands and kissed John, hard, on his mouth. Sherlock felt that he came alive under his lips. Then he let John go.
“Don’t think I should ask you to forgive me,” Sherlock said. “You have no right to let this go by, John. You are damn to particular to do it by half. I’m your man and you know it.”
Chapter Four of “Then All The World Would See”: Sherlock Holmes, in the language of his insufferable brother, was ‘definitely intrigued’ about his job at the dead letter office. At twenty-eight, he had outgrown the horror of drug addiction, which was so characteristic of his younger years. Enter one John Watson, a fuck-up who doesn’t want to be a fuck-up anymore and also wants to fuck Sherlock Holmes. That he’s Sherlock’s boss happens to be the least of their problems. A story about warzones beyond Afghanistan, second chances in life, and how to fall in love. Told in text, notes and (dead) letters.
It’s Johnlock, elementary. (BBC!Johnlock, so far: ca. 15k, explicit).
Get your hankies and kleenex ready, this one is for the heart. I got all teary eyed when I wrote and edited it.
