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It’s quiet. Calm. Peaceful.
Not hateful, though.
He has wrapped up his latest case only yesterday evening. No reason to be bored, not yet. Later, in the afternoon, another case will be nice, but right now, there’s no need.
Contentedly, Sherlock readjusts his position in his chair slightly towards his left, relishing the warmth of the morning sun now touching the back of his neck.
There’s another feeling though, that, unlike the boredom, should be present. Would’ve been present, only eight months ago.
A year ago from now, the sun wouldn’t have been enough to warm him. A year ago from now, alone in his flat on Montague Street, he would have felt cold in spite of the sun.
However many experiments he would have come up with to conduct, the emptiness, the loneliness would have crept into his consciousness regardless. The sadness, the pain, would have wrapped themselves around his heart and lungs like a vice and squeezed until he could no longer breathe properly, until he would have been unable to think, until he would have wanted to scream and cry in agony.
He would have known that, however hard he may try, it would be impossible for him to always prevent himself from feeling hurt at people’s remarks – because, in spite of whatever people may think of him, he is no psychopath. He would have known that, in all probability, he would never find someone who got him, someone he could share his work, his thoughts and feelings, his joys and sorrows, his life with, and who would want to share theirs with him in turn. That however much progress he might have already made – that even though he had managed to get rid of the drugs, had managed to find someone at Scotland Yard allowing him into crime scenes – that however hard he might fight, at some point, he might perhaps be no longer able to go on alone.
But now, there is another source of light and warmth in his life besides the sun, wrapping him up in a blanket of happiness, safety and love: John Watson.
Today, there isn’t even a risk anymore of John storming out of the flat to “get some air” as he did one time, five months ago now. Over the course of the last few months, they’ve grown to understand each other completely, learned everything about each other and many things from each other. Sherlock is secure in the knowledge that, whenever they quarrel, as couples are sometimes wont to do, that John would never leave him, and that, whenever he goes out to “get some air” now, he goes to the park or the pub, and never to visit a woman.
Resurfacing from the recesses of his mind, Sherlock opens his eyes, refocusing his attention back on his surroundings.
The light streaming in from the two large windows behind him is bathing the whole flat in a rusty orange glow. John is moving around in the kitchen, clearing up their breakfast table and storing away plates and mugs that have accumulated in all sorts of places over the last few days. He is wearing his wine red cardigan and green chequered shirt, which shouldn’t look attractive but does, and his brown leather belt that accentuates his hips as he walks. Stretching up to reach one of the higher shelves, a ray of light falls on his head, making his blonde hair twinkle and shine like wisps of straw on a field and his dark blue eyes sparkle like ocean waves.
How could he have ever been so lucky to meet such a man? A man who is both, a fighter, and a healer. A man who will always protect him, no matter what, and with whom he’ll always feel safe, on the battlefield and at home.
He doesn’t believe in any kind of magical or supernatural beings, in wonders or miracles, and yet there is absolutely no doubt that John, both his presence here and his existence as such, is a miracle.
Lifting his hands back up into a steepling position, and closing his eyes once more, Sherlock lets his mind drift back to the events of the previous day.
Roughly twisting his arms behind his back, bruising them and pulling his right shoulder in the process, his assailants had had him forced down on his knees.
He can still see the expression of surprise and shock on his would-be murderers’ faces as John had appeared, from out of the shadows, pointing his gun at them, hands steady, fierce determination in his eyes.
He can still feel his body being flooded with adrenalin, his heart beating in his chest as they fought them off together…
John had been fantastic. As usual.
Being brought back to the present by the sensation of his own lips moving over the tips of his fingers – a smile must have formed in the corner of his mouth – Sherlock reopens his eyes to find John standing in the kitchen entrance, drying a mug with a towel and looking at him.
“What were you thinking about?” John asks, a warm smile passing over his face.
“You.”
“Me?”
“About yesterday evening. How you saved my life… How you always make me feel safe, wherever we are.”
John stops towelling and lets his arms sink down by his side.
“And… about the time before I met you… You know I don’t believe in miracles and such things, but you… you are my miracle, John. The only one I’ll ever believe in.”
John is coming over from the kitchen, dropping the mug and the towel into his own chair as he goes, crouching down in front of Sherlock.
Cupping the detective’s face in his hands, he breathes, “And you mine. You mine, Sherlock.”
Weaving one of his hands into Sherlock’s curls and the other – his right one, Sherlock notices, so as not to disturb my injury – around his back, John draws him in close and holds him, their cheeks coming to rest against each other.
Closing his eyes, Sherlock places his left hand on John’s back, burying his fingers in the fabric of John’s cardigan, and pressing them both tightly together.
After a while, Sherlock pulls back far enough to be able to look at John.
“I love you, John. So, so much.”
“I know, Sherlock. I know. I love you too.”
John kisses him. Long, tender and deep.
Eventually, slowly, with a gentle caress to Sherlock’s bottom lip, he draws back.
After both taking a moment, John gives a nod towards Sherlock’s shoulder. “How’s it doing? Is it still hurting?”
“No, it’s stopped now. As long as I don’t move it, I don’t notice.”
“Good, good. In a few hours, I’ll put on some more ointment, alright?”
“Mmm… In the meantime, what do you think about going for a walk?”
“That’d be lovely.”
“And later, after we’ve come back here, lunch at Angelo’s?”
“Perfect.”