Chapter Text
It was another late night. Late. What the hell constituted itself as late anymore, once one dedicates their nights to Sherlock? John turned in his bed, pushing his pillow firmer against his neck. The digital clock, past the unnaturally still head and shoulders of his catatonic bedfellow, shined 3:16 AM.
Sherlock didn’t even seem to breathe when he slept. It was as if he could truly shut everything inside him- like a machine. John closed his eyes again and pushed his ear closer to the pillow. Shit. The room was too quiet. Sherlock had attempted to fix that problem before by buying an air purifier (not that neither of them were afraid that by some freak accident one of Sherlock’s experimental chemicals would randomly seep through the vents and kill them both in their sleep) but just so it’d provide some noise for John. It wasn’t on tonight. On account of it breaking. From an experiment. About the purity of the flat’s air.
John was used to noise. He would never admit it, at least, not out loud, but he even liked noise; his body had adjusted to the masculine growls and laughter that surrounded his bunks every night back in Afghanistan. He liked the bomb shells, the firing, the itch in his ears followed by a hypnotic ring that meant he was still alive. He liked remembering what it felt to be alive.
The bed shifted and John jumped - memories of sand dunes and dust-filled cities fluttering his heartbeat faster than normal. Sherlock turned over and faced him, eyelids heavily shut as his brilliant mind continued to float in deep sleep.
John sighed. His eyes couldn’t help study Sherlock’s face whenever it presented itself this way; completely open and unguarded...peaceful. It amazed John how no dark rings marred the skin under Sherlock’s eyes. His cheekbones were still as prominent as ever, but somehow softer, covered by a pale blanket of skin falling down to his nose and lips. John blinked and focused on the face in front of him. Narrow, sharp nose. Almost birdlike...but somehow smooth. Cream. Soft.
You’re not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it.
John clenched his jaw. In the past thirty-five years, how many things did he truly miss? Well, for one thing, he did miss home. His first home. Maybe even his real home. His missed the old Harry, the sun-warmed Saturday mornings with her and mum, watching telly and fighting over the remote. He missed his uni mates and the optimism they once shared, though he’d never admit it to Mike and the boys. And he did miss the war zone. Not just the noises, the people. Their need for him.
He missed having them need. People needing him. He sometimes wondered even if Sherlock truly needed him. Or if he had, if his gigantic ego would ever let him admit it.
John did, in fact, miss many things. Even the little ones. The things Sherlock would call dull and unnecessary. The feeling of lips. Touch. Close proximity. Bare affection.
John kept a limited catalogue of the women he had been with in the past and how they had felt against him, his first kisses, every word they’d sigh to him, and replay it on days like this. Well, not much of this day in particular, but period of time. He was frustrated.
He took another breath and dared to inch closer to the sleeping form next to him. John’s eyes roamed now to the wide shoulder jutting above the duvet and lifting in time with Sherlock’s shallow breaths. John was frustrated. But he really didn’t want to be. Oh god, he hated himself for it.
He hated himself for the heat building inside, simply by looking at Sherlock’s body and face. He hated that he had to miss things. Dull and unnecessary things. They truly were, weren’t they? Unnecessary. Un-bloody-necessary, Watson.
John relaxed his jaw and took another breath. He had to remember that Sherlock was already his; that milestone was reached. The world’s only consulting detective had accepted John as someone important enough be sleeping next to on this very night and to wake with in the following morning. He found John important in general. God knows why.
John actually had Sherlock, and yet there always had to be more, didn’t there? The heat was relentless. The needs, the things he missed. John wanted to touch him. He wanted to know what the mouth that sprouted so many clever deductions, insults, and sometimes the most human things would feel like on his. Taste like. What would Sherlock look like kiss-swollen? Would he be happy?
Or what would his skin feel like if John’s fingers had the courage to linger just a few seconds more? Or minutes? How would it feel to spent hours just holding Sherlock Holmes?
Would Sherlock ever even let that happen?
John’s hand slipped out from under the pillow pressured against his head. What if at this moment, in this silent room, with Sherlock at his most unguarded state, John could just reach and...?
Sherlock shifted suddenly, a move that barely startled John but jolted Sherlock out of whatever deep state of sleep he’d been in. He slowly opened his eyes, grey-green meeting blue.
John quickly retracted his hand, “Sherlock! Jesus!”
Sherlock rubbed at his face, “What time is it?”
John looked past him to the clock, “Well, it’s about 3:47 now...” His heart continued to hammer.
“NO! I’m late!” Sherlock jumped out of bed, tripping on the bedside post but managing to fall back into step as he rushed out of the bedroom, grabbing his blue dressing gown in the process.
“Wait, what?! Sherlock!” John scrambled himself to sit upright, covering his eyes to the blinding light Sherlock turned on down the hallway as he ran. He slid his legs off the mattress and pushed himself up, walking quickly to keep up with the lunatic, “Sherlock! What the hell are you on about?”
“It’s fine, it doesn’t pertain to you, go back to bed. I’ve an experiment that needed to be checked at three a.m. precisely.”
John blinked incredulously, “At three... three a.m?! What... who places things to check at three a.m.? Especially right after a case?” He rubbed his temples as he entered the dim living room, the light still a bit much for the eyes. “Why can’t you just accept the reality that even people like you need sleep?!”
“As you know rather well, I am what you would call ‘a night owl,’ or rather, traditional sleeping schedules have little to no sway on me; therefore, what you’re saying is that I need my sleep during the night but, in reality, I do not.”
“Just...” John looked over at the catastrophe Sherlock had splayed on his desk. He walked to his side and pointed, “What is this all about then?”
“If I told you, would you really understand or even want to understand?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows and started flipping through a rather large pile of papers.
“Try me. You know I’m still not as stupid as you’ve been making me out to be. And I am interested in the... things you do,” John timidly fingered through a stack nearby, “whatever they are half of the time.”
Sherlock gave a small smile, “I’m measuring the staining and splattering of blood on various materials, including but not limited to wood, metals, paper, plastic, etc, over three-hour intervals, and if different blood types stain differently, and before you say it, no, this is not what I did last week.”
“Well thank bloody god for that, but...” John suddenly sighed, “I don’t see any materials here. Do I want to see the kitchen at the moment?”
Sherlock paused for a moment, considering, “No, probably not. Don’t look in the oven or the refrigerator, either, temperature is one of the variables I’m testing.”
“One day, I’m just going to buy you a bloody lab that you can ruin whenever you’d like. The poor kitchen,” John rubbed his eyes again. The food. Shit, he just got the shopping yesterday! “Wait, so are you telling me we have nothing edible at the moment because of this...thing you decided up suddenly?”
“...Yes. Except I think there might be some of those...cardboard crunchy things, the ones in boxes, what are those called again? And maybe some beans? I don’t know, it’s not important!”
John’s face softened as he bit back a laugh, “I don’t think a couple of granola bars and beans can constitute as breakfast tomorrow, or er...tonight..”
“Ah, granola bars! Actually, I’ve heard that those are a breakfast item. However, yes, I can see your point,” Sherlock suddenly frowned, “What do you mean, tonight? You need to go to sleep!”
“Oh no, you won’t get off the hook switching roles!”
“I’m not switching anything! I’m perfectly aware that you’re...a bit disappointed in my food habits? But you do need to go to sleep. It’s important...for your...health.”
“Oh, your compassion is killing me, Sherlock.” John tried to hold his smirk.
Sherlock threw his hands up, “Well, apparently since you won’t leave me alone and I can’t perform my experiments without your disapproval hanging over me, perhaps we should go and get...something to...eat,” he pronounced the last word distastefully. Food was so dull.
John let himself smile fully this time. He liked that Sherlock had been trying more, actually attempting something other than his usually tyrannical air between the two of them. He nodded, “That’d be nice.”
“Aren’t most food eating places closed at this time?”
“Restaurants. And... that’s true. Maybe you could impress me with your lock picking and open the bakery downstairs?”
“John, you know as well as I do that they don’t bake things ‘til the morning. Hm...” Sherlock reached into his dressing gown and pulled out his phone, scrolling through and quickly typing a message, “I think I can arrange something, however.”
John moved closer to see the screen, “What are you thinking?”
“I rather believe the question is, what are you in the mood for?”
John looked up at gray eyes reflecting the screen’s light, “I dunno. I’ve never really had a preference with breakfast.”
“Is that what we’re calling it, at four in the morning? Alright,” Sherlock typed another message, and looked up at John, “Are you sure you’re not too tired?”
John smiled wider, “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
The phone dinged. John mentally thanked the gods for never having to hear that awful ring tone of the god awful woman playing through their flat ever again. 57 times were enough.
“It looks like that pie breakfast place round the corner is open, or rather, opening for us,” Sherlock smirked, “That bit about the affair seemed to have worked.”
“It’s always either you’ve saved someone’s cat or know who they’re sleeping with. You and your mysterious ways,” John touched his arm automatically.
Sherlock flinched for half a second, enough for John to pull away quickly. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, “I’m going to get dressed and,” he paused, looking down at John’s clothes, “you can...” he trailed off, shrugged, and dashed back to his - no, their - bedroom.
John watched him go, pulling a straight face as Sherlock analyzed him for a brief moment and lost track of his thoughts. His eyes fell back to the piles of papers on the desk. His fingers touched them briefly; parts of Sherlock and maybe the only things John could feel without this stinging pain of rejection. He shouldn’t have done that. Bloody morning buzz, John hadn’t thought at that moment. He could feel the cement building up in his stomach as he finally followed Sherlock’s path to the bedroom to change his own clothes.
Sherlock quickly slid on a stark white dress shirt as John entered the room. He watched John carefully through the mirror. Why, why did he have to be so disgusted by all sensations of touch? John had only patted his arm for an instant, and yet he’d felt the need to recoil so quickly. It seemed unfair to ask so much of John and give nothing in return, but that’s what John had signed up for, wasn’t it? From the first day in St. Bart’s to the day that they both had decided it was time to move their relationship (if it could even be called that) to the next step (which really wasn’t so different from the first or second or third steps), Sherlock had never promised anything. Or had he? In forming a relationship - an intimate, deep relationship - did that automatically mean physical contact? Intimacy had never been one of Sherlock’s strong suits. Neither had relationships, or sex, or really...anything to do with feelings and urges.
John turned from Sherlock’s view as he pulled a clean button up from a dresser and took off his shirt, exchanging them quickly over his body. Why the hell did John always have to do this? Ruin things because of his urge to be affectionate. How he couldn’t stand to stare at the man he loved long enough without wanting to crop though his hair, pat his back, even rest his hands on his shoulder. Why was it such a difficult task? It was how many people felt, wasn’t it? We are all wired to touch, to physically need to connect to the person we’ve connected to in any way- spiritually, sexually, and in Sherlock’s case, intellectually. But still...Sherlock was perfect in every sense of the word, he... was truly everything... John’s head stammered. He should be satisfied with what Sherlock managed to give him as a person, as his boyfriend and best friend. He should be. John pulled his jeans from another drawer and slid into the bathroom, closing the door with a light click to avoid concern being raised between them.
Sherlock sat on the bed, fully dressed, waiting for John to come out of the bathroom. They’d changed together before, before they had decided to enter a relationship, but for some reason John thought it was different now. It wasn’t like Sherlock was afraid of John’s body - he’d seen it plenty of times - but somehow, things weren’t the same. That was why Sherlock had hesitated so much when John had brought up this ‘relationship’ business. Everything always changed.
John zipped up his trousers and looked at his face in the mirror for a moment, finger on the light switch. It seemed like the drowsiness left his features though his eyes had a bit of red and puffiness underneath them. He tried to smile at himself. Calm down, it’s alright. John’s face hardened and he gave himself a brief nod. You have what you’ve always wanted, and nothing’s lost yet. Keep it that way, Watson. He clicked the light off and opened the door to Sherlock’s eyes already on him from the bed. John made another grin, “Ready to go?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the tension in John’s face and posture, “Yes, the owner’s waiting for us.”
“Alright then,” John said no more, already heading out of the door to the coat rack in the living room.
Sherlock followed quickly, pulling on his long coat and tying his favorite scarf.
John threw his own jacket over and fished his leather gloves from his pockets before bracing the doorknob to the stairway and turning. “Remember to be quiet, I’m sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be too keen on baking us biscuits if we wake her at this hour.”
Snorting, Sherlock quietly stalked out the front door.
John turned to him when they exited to the street. The sky was still surprisingly dark. Sunrise would come in another.. John looked at his phone, half an hour or so? How the hell would they get a cab?
Sherlock just kept walking; the shop was close enough that calling a cab would only be a hassle. Besides, it wasn’t too cold, but winter was quickly setting upon London. He exhaled, watching his breath in the early morning air, and looked up at the bedrooms and offices in the buildings they were passing, “Affair, unhappy marriage, no children but she wants them, he pretends not to notice,” he said, pointing at one dimly lit room.
John did a light jog to catch up, giving Sherlock a breathy laugh as he began dissecting the windows hovering above them, “You know, people always ask me when will I tell them the secret to how you do these things. I fear I’ll still be disappointing them even at my deathbed.”
“I simply observe,” Sherlock pointed to another window, one much closer to them, “his father recently passed and left a lump sum on the condition that he’ll marry his girlfriend - no, boyfriend, apparently - but he’s not sure about their relationship since the boyfriend is a habitual drug abuser and alcoholic, along with being a manic-depressive. All the signs are there, John, but most people look past them.”
John just laughed again and shook his head, muttering, “Brilliant,” under his breath and keeping in step with Sherlock until they reached the restaurant's doors illuminated by a faint light coming from the inside. He pulled one open, holding it for Sherlock as he scanned the inside. Jesus Christ. What kind of friends did Sherlock have to manage to get reservations at places like this at four-something-in-sodding-morning?
Sherlock smiled indulgently at the disbelief on John’s face as he entered the restaurant, “The owner owes me for not revealing his long-term affair with his wife’s sister. Why so many people want to enter extramarital affairs is something I shall never know. It only breeds complications.”
John took a seat in the booth they were ushered into by the restaurant owner, who was giddily focusing more on Sherlock than him. He looked at the menu for a few seconds, “Maybe it’s just because they’re unhappy but can’t find a way to live without their partners," escaped from John’s lips automatically.
Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together for a split second before smoothing out. He said something in French to the owner before asking John what he wanted.
“Um, whatever this is?” John pointed to a picture in the menu and smiled embarrassingly.
“Il aura un crêpe,” said Sherlock, in an impeccable accent, “avec des fraises. Apporter un café noir pour moi.”
The owner nodded enthusiastically and left the table. John quirked an eyebrow, “You never cease to amaze, huh?”
“I suppose not,” said Sherlock, “If they’re truly unhappy, then how can they live with their partners?”
Oh, back to that? John’s smile fainted. His fingers traced the utensils on his napkin, “Well, I suppose, they don’t believe their unhappiness is really worth leaving.”
“That...doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock tried to comprehend John’s statement, “It’s unhappiness, isn’t it? How is that not worth leaving? I thought being happy was what people lived for!”
“Is that what you live for?” John deflected.
“I suppose in my own way of being ‘happy,’ whatever that means, yes. I do what I please. Isn’t that how most would define happiness? And that’s hardly the point anyway.”
“What do you mean?” John folded a corner of his napkin.
“John, what is wrong with you?” Sherlock stared at the man sitting across from him, “You’re acting bizarrely.”
“It’s four in the morning, what do you expect?” John laughed.
Sherlock stared intently for another second before laughing with him. He loved when John laughed; it brightened up the whole room.
“You and your philosophical, early morning conversations,” John added.
“You’re the philosophical one, not me! I can’t begin to comprehend why you want to think of what-if scenarios instead of focusing on the present situations!”
John giggled again, “Because everyone wants to know what it would be like if something were to be different, even if it were a small aspect of their life. It’s nice to get out of the reality of things from time to time.” The cement in his stomach suddenly returned.
“Hm. Or they could simply change the situation that they’re in,” Sherlock watched as John’s happy expression faded away.
Not if they can’t stand to let it go. John realized his smile was gone and poorly attempted a return, but he knew it was too late. Sherlock already saw. He always did. “I mean, with me and Harry... what-ifs came in handy a lot.”
Sherlock simply looked at him.
“Um, you know already. Her alcoholism. Waking up with her banging on my flat door with a half-empty bottle of god knows. Sitting up holding a shivering body while you pat her and tell her it’s okay when you know it isn’t.”
Sympathy would no doubt elicit the true response to what was bothering him, so Sherlock blinked and then softly said, “Somehow, I don’t think that’s what you meant, John.”
John’s chest tightened. His fingers stilled on the napkin, “I’ve just always felt it was nice to escape reality every once in awhile. Always have. Life never really has handed me any breaks, so I...tend to make my own.” He kicked himself for using present tense at the end.
“Tend. You. Tend. To make your own. So, you still actively fantasize about escaping the reality. Don’t keep playing the victim, John, it doesn’t suit you,” with that, Sherlock took out his phone, wrapped his coat tighter around him, and put his feet up on the seat, effectively blocking John out.
The owner came back happily with Sherlock’s coffee and John’s meal. He didn’t seem to notice the atmosphere, smiling obviously at the couple and leaving their presence again. John couldn’t look down at his plate. Couldn’t move his arms. “Sherlock, that’s not what I meant.”
“Oh, that’s not what you meant? Really? Because I recall that that’s definitely what you said. And it’s not like this is new,” he practically spat the last word. The coffee cup rattled.
The cement in John seemed to start to constrict his lungs. Heat reached his ears, “Don’t you even start. You have no idea exactly what I meant from that short blurb of a statement, okay? It’s not you, or us, or whatever you’d like to label it as. You know I couldn’t want more,” John pushed his plate to the side and leaned forward. He hushed his words, “I love you, okay? I always have and this, having you in my life is beyond anything else I could have ever wished for. But please, stop this. My reality does not equal our relationship in any way. You know there’s plenty room for improvement with me.”
Sherlock didn’t move for a second, and then slowly put down his feet, making sure to not look at John, “Why do you keep doing this to me, then? It’s not even you but the idea of a relationship, isn’t it? And we are in a relationship,” he met John’s deep blue eyes, “and I don’t want that to change. I don’t feel isolated around you, like I do with everyone else, but now...”
“What are you talking about?” John’s brow creased.
“You know perfectly well, I don’t think I need to repeat myself. Something is going on in your head and you won’t tell me and it’s so aggravating, John! I can’t deduce everything you’re thinking, no matter how hard I seem to try!”
John’s eyes fell to the table. Please don’t, Sherlock. Please... he looked back up at him. Lips tight, John breathed, “I don’t want you to worry about it. You worry about enough things. I can... I want to sort it out myself. It’s not worth talking about.”
Sherlock looked at John for a long time, “Fine. But if it is important and it interferes, then I will find out, and we will have to deal with it.”
John nodded, “Alright. If the time comes, then.”
Sherlock exhaled deeply and put two sugars in his coffee. It would be a long morning.