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The creaky stair awoke Sherlock before whoever-it-was even reached the landing at 221B. He reached silently for the sword (the one that Turkish fellow had conveniently left in the flat) under the edge of the mattress as he listened for the intruder. Normal people would keep the door to be B locked, but Sherlock never did. The outside door was secure and there was no need to lock out Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock drew in a surprised breath and relaxed his grip on the sword, letting it fall to the ground when he recognized the footsteps that crossed the sitting room and approached his bedroom door. Should he feign sleep? Call out a greeting? Best wait and take a cue from his visitor.
The footsteps paused a moment outside the slightly ajar door before the visitor swung it slowly inward. Hesitation, he was unsure. Would he enter? ‘Feign sleep’, Sherlock decided as he closed his eyes and reached out with his other senses. Sherlock heard halting footsteps on the floorboards (and was that a slight hitch in the step?) as the visitor moved to stand by the side of the bed, behind where Sherlock was turned away on his side. The mattress dipped slightly from the weight and then settled out as another body lay next to Sherlock and very familiar cologne filled his lungs.
“I know you’re not asleep,” John said, his voice so low it was barely heard by either of them.
Sherlock didn’t reply. There was no real need and he had no idea what to say.
“This isn’t ‘I forgive you’ or even ‘I understand’. I just… I need to feel you. Alive.”
Sherlock rolled over onto his back and turned to look at his blogger in the darkness. John’s hand came to rest on Sherlock’s bare chest, right above his heart. The detective’s eyes fluttered closed as he took in a deep breath and opened again when he slowly exhaled. It was funny, how he’d missed silly little things like John’s very uniquely John scent. Oh. That’s what was wrong with 221B since Sherlock had been back – the John scent had faded.
John’s hand began to move along Sherlock’s body, pausing at various sites for assessment. The hand moved down Sherlock’s arm to take the pulse in his wrist. It tickled on its way back up and paused against his neck. Sherlock moved his head to the side, stretching his neck and allowing John access to the steady, slightly elevated pulse of his carotid artery. Satisfied, the hand moved on to brush fingertips against Sherlock’s upper lip. Sherlock increased the force of his breath to be sure John could feel the air on his digits. Finally, John moved to lay his head on Sherlock’s chest, his ear where his hand had been, just above the heart.
The whole thing made Sherlock unsure how to act. He wondered if he should say something as John listened to his heart beating. Sherlock generally didn’t need words, not for niceties and feelings and such, but perhaps John wanted them? Would he want an apology or an explanation? Both? Maybe some heartfelt declaration to let him know how important he was, which John deserved and more. The thing is, though, genius or not, Sherlock was crap at all that. He knew John well enough, too, to know that his presence right now was tenuous and he would leave if Sherlock upset him. It was the last thing Sherlock wanted to risk. As far as he was concerned, John could stay where he was forever.
Sherlock wasn’t sure there was anything he could say, any words that John would know were sincere. Even when the words were true and Sherlock actually meant the niceties, he heard the strain in his voice and knew it sounded fake. Saying the words just wasn’t him. It wasn’t the meaning that was wrong or that he was lying (he rather thought himself more convincing while acting) - it was the format that was unnatural.
Sherlock relaxed as he thought about other ways to communicate, ways that felt genuine. He slowly moved his arm up and rested his hand on John’s back. John’s shirt was soft as Sherlock absently ran his hand down a bit and back up. He drew lazy circles with his fingers. Circles turned into infinities as Sherlock relaxed and John’s breathing evened out in sleep.