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John adored him in the mornings; dark hair amiss, pale and undressed. The doctor liked to pretend sometimes that Sherlock was only wrapped in a sheet because they had engaged in activities the prior night that hadn't a need for clothes. It was a sweet fantasy and one he indulged in often. There were many saccharine fantasies lingering endlessly through John's conscious stream; all immersed in the essence of cream skin and coffee hued curls. The object of longing.
He spent two years chasing sorrow with glasses of whisky, haunted by the shadow of black coats and stolen cigarettes out in the rain; every time he caught the tinge of tobacco it made his chest burn and every shade of dark hair bled into recollections of twining ink hair. It was the hardest thing John ever had to go through, and god help him, he never completely gave up on his brilliant detective for one moment.
John adored him in the back of a cab right next to him, all angles and pale skin lit with ephemeral shadows chasing the street lights that shivered across his features. They were in motion and the blood was thrumming, the days were never prosaic with the intangible presence of his flatmate. John watched him with starry-eyes, always. Mary happened into the second year and there was a reprieve that sometimes lulled the void living in his sternum; that sometimes made it bearable to breathe without sharp pains. He clung to that little bit of solace when he caught it. He kept telling himself he had to move on. Move on or he'd go fucking crazy missing him. The engagement ring was bought and the dinner reservations were made. His throat burned for a whisky lozenge when he looked across at the blonde-haired woman, pushing himself to say the words that felt wrong on his tongue. This was his chance to move on. He had to move on. It was do or die.
Then, god, his heart lit like a kerosene-drenched bonfire and the smoke nearly choked him. He saw that face again and all he could think of was collars turned up against impossible cheekbones and clandestine smiles like a map of the perfect crime scene in his head. Sherlock. How could he have left John behind? Was devoting his entire self to the detective's well being never enough? John hit him but to the doctor, in his anoetic state, it felt like a welcome home kiss that he didn't get. He heard sirens in his ears; blood trembling with the hurricane of his blue-eyed detective that nestled back through his veins. That presence webbed itself in the vacated corners of his being like a poisonous spider setting up its home in his DNA. It hurt but it felt vaguely like a heartsick, throbbing love.
John adored the way blood running down his face looked and when it seeped into the cracks of full lips. How that deep voice resonated all the way down to John's bones and felt like a bed made of dark velvet begging to be crawled into and dismantled down to a rasp. The red on pale skin and the city light glimmering in sea eyes was enough to undo the doctor permanently. Two years be damned.
Weeks after Sherlock's return John spent the night at Baker Street working on a case with his (not-dead) friend. They solved it in the darkest hours of night before the dawn, and the elated smiles they shared left John breathless. His sternum buzzed with the thrill of Sherlock's presence and the case files spread all over the place and late hours. This was what he loved. He felt alive. He was a lush for crime scenes and smooth deductions from his necromantic raven-haired detective. He got the feeling in that moment everything was possible.
John fell asleep in the chair and Sherlock dozed off on the couch shortly before sunrise. They were back up a couple hours later, sharing cups of tea and John still remembered how much cream to put in Sherlock's, and they sat at the kitchen table speaking in low tones, laughing softly at nothing overtly amusing. It was the best night John had lived through in two years. The rising sun felt like heaven on his skin when he left Baker Street for work. As if he'd just stepped out of church after atoning for all his sins; he was lucid and Sherlock's ambrosial influence made him feel sanctified, devoid from mediocre life.
Two weeks, tea-stained folders and more nearly-sleepless nights later, they were chasing down a criminal, winding their way through the streets of London with the rush of adrenaline humming. John was the one that brought the guy down; tackling him onto the pavement and pushing him into the ground with a firm knee in the back and Sherlock was giving John a grin that had the doctor taken with a fever burning down to his solar plexus. He looked at the grinning detective, both breathless and high off the chase, and he was so, so in love.
Which is why the next day he had to tell his fiancee he was leaving her. Leaving her for the possibilities. For the chase. For the crime scenes and blood. For the moments where he feels utterly alive. For a sociopath with a love for serial killers and the sweetest looking lips. It was all too much to live without. He needed it all without any outside factors; so he could immerse himself once again in the veins of the forensic romance.
Sherlock was more than welcoming when he asked to move back into Baker Street. John found out he had actually missed coming home to body parts in the fridge. He missed finding the detective at his microscope, intent and precise in his mannerism. John caught himself smiling when he'd come home from the clinic and see his blue-eyed object of affection conducting hazardous experiments in their kitchen so John had to eat take away in the sitting room and coerce Sherlock into dining with him.
He hadn't been planning the exact day he would utter the sentiment burning at the bottom of his tongue every time he looked at Sherlock, but a couple weeks after settling back into the flat he met the detective one Friday evening after his shift at work, finding him at a crime scene in progress, already in the midst of rattling off deductions when he got past the police tape. John stopped and he watched his dangerous boy, his love, all coat collars and cut cheekbones, manic and sweet violence and morbid and so fucking lovely. He had a flame in him; a fire that spread into John's veins and lit him up like he was made of gasoline. Sherlock fueled a hunger in John that left him starving with bone-deep lust whenever his eyes lingered too long over milky skin and slender fingers on a violin bow.
"Beautiful," the doctor uttered softly, after the consulting detective had finished picking apart the entire scene and its story. Lestrade and Anderson hadn't heard, both too busy processing the onslaught of information and gathering it into coherence. Sherlock had though, and he glanced back at John with assessing eyes.
"John," he said, striding over to where the doctor was. "What took you so long?"
"I was at work. You know that, Sherlock."
"We need to find the victim's ex-boyfriend. Talk to him a bit." Sherlock intoned, seeming anxious.
"Right. Yeah." John nodded, his rib-cage filling with warmth and desire and adoration as he met the silvery blue gaze studying him.
They made the way back out onto dark streets, and once they stepped outside Sherlock spoke again.
"Also, there's something you need to tell me." he stated.
"There is?" the doctor's eyebrows lifted vaguely.
Sherlock gave him a look, smirking just a bit.
"Ah, yeah." John nodded. "I threw out the bag of fingers in the fridge."
The other man gave pause, casting John with a skeptical stare. "No, you didn't. You better not have, that was an important experiment, John. I was measuring the postmortem effects of-"
John couldn't help himself any longer, the words came out in a breathless invocation soaked with devotion. "Oh god, Sherlock, I'm in love with you."
The dark-haired man gazed at John for a very long, still moment before the corner of his mouth lifted in a sly smile. "You are incredible, John."
Tilting his head slightly in question, the doctor let a bemused smile capture his lips. "What?"
"I believed love was a chemical defect before I met you. I still do. Except I've realized it's actually a bit more than that. Love is addiction and you are more potent than any of my previous vices."
John swallowed, watching idly as the detective flagged down a nearby cab. "Is that your way of saying that you love me too?"
Sherlock nodded once, looking back to his doctor. "Wasn't that obvious?"
The smile that lingered on John's lips wouldn't fade for a very long time. He was on fire and yet serene. When they got into the back of the cab, John snaked a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pressed their lips together for the first of many times that night. He reveled at the warmth of that precious mouth on his, that hurricane spinning inside every web of his cell structure. John had him, his dangerous boy, his mysterious and exquisite black-haired baby, finally, finally where he belonged, pressed right against John.