Work Text:
Honeybee
I can't imagine how my life would be
If all your gravity did not hit me
-Honeybee, The Head and The Heart
Gentle tugs on hands with a fond exhaustion, fingers curled in hair, relaxing as two lounge on the sofa, soft kisses pressed to the safe spaces of one's body— showing affection, being generally fond: people do.
Just not to Sherlock Holmes.
For the first thirty-four years of his life, Sherlock is never anybody’s first choice for anything more significant than a partner during group projects or a consultant on a case. They treat him like a robot or machine, and it’s not like Sherlock goes out of his way to disprove them. Many think that Sherlock is cut out for a life of solitude. It must be written in the sharp angles that jut out of his body, or his striking pale eyes that unnerve people, flicking about the room to gain data, or his booming voice or tall stature. (Never mind that his eyes can grow soft and watery; never mind that his voice can whisper and murmur sincere platitudes.) Everyone thinks that Sherlock Holmes is doing just fine fending for himself.
(Enter John Watson.)
John sees through that almost immediately. It startles Sherlock more than a little bit. From the moment Sherlock invites John out onto the case, their first case, he makes it his mission to ensure that Sherlock is unharmed, like some sort of… guardian angel. He stuffs food into Sherlock’s mouth when he has gone days without food. He places a thin blanket atop him when Sherlock crashes onto the sofa, exhausted from three days wide awake spent dashing about London with four nicotine patches slapped onto his forearm. John grasps Sherlock’s hand and closes the overwhelming world around them when it is far too much for Sherlock’s senses. He does all this, and it’s not to win Sherlock over. His end goal isn’t the two of them horizontal on a bed. No— Sherlock can see it in his unwavering loyalty and the way he smiles even if Sherlock isn’t paying attention to him. He’s doing it because he cares.
For whatever reason, Sherlock is the first person John looks for in any room.
Sherlock finds himself positively giddy.
(Bad word. Sickening word. Far too… school boy-ish.)
He had not anticipated the glee that shocks his person at the slightest brush of John's fingers against his, or the gooey warm melt that permeates the “cavity” in his chest when John looks at him adoringly, as if Sherlock is the only thing John can bring himself to care about. And Sherlock still hasn't found an apt descriptor for the feeling when John rests his hands on Sherlock's hips, presses his head into the crook of Sherlock's neck, and murmurs, "What's all this, then?" whilst his hands travel to Sherlock’s stomach. It is the most intimate thing for an animal, to allow one their belly. Sherlock always squirms with the vulnerability in it.
It consumes Sherlock’s entire being. For a good long while after John had first pinned him to the sofa and snogged the living daylights out of him, Sherlock had been entirely incapable of focussing on anything that was not John Watson. If love were an addiction, and John his dealer, Sherlock would dive headlong into overdose. He knows he’d happily allow himself to perish at the hands of this gentle, fiery thing.
He has never known anything to be this all-consuming. John’s love is worth more than anything else Sherlock has ever wanted. Pirates, drugs, The Work— they all pale in comparison to John. Sherlock would go through hell twice, thrice over to earn even an iota of it to carry with him every day. Because for once in his life, he is somebody’s somebody. Someone’s beloved.
It is nice, Sherlock finds, to belong for once, rather than to possess.
John kisses him to greet him good morning, as though they hadn’t woken up in each other’s presence, fuzzy and bleary-eyed and morning breath. This happens frequently. It delights and confuses Sherlock in equal measure.
He swallows down his morning tea (thank you, Mrs. Hudson) and sets it down with a clunk onto the wooden table. He asks, “Must you kiss me so often?” It sounds so much like a complaint, but Sherlock rests assured that John knows exactly what he means. John always does.
Despite that, John teases, “Well, I can always tone it down if you’re not a fan.” He brushes a curl out of Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock frowns. “Don’t be obtuse, John. You know I enjoy it.” He leans into John’s warm hand. Scratches on his scalp, mmm. Sensitive follicles, John knows this well. “It’s a question. Collecting data.” He waves a vague hand, two quick jerks of his wrist. “Must you?” He asks again with a raise of his brow.
“Well, I get the impulse to kiss you a lot,” John starts, licking his lips of his morning coffee, “and I don’t particularly want to stop myself.”
“Why not?”
John laughs at him. The laugh isn’t mean-spirited. It never is, coming from John, save for bitter barks of laughter when Sherlock’s cocked up spectacularly. And even then, it is mild. Sherlock will never stop being boggled at the saint that is John Watson. “ ‘Cause I love you, you great big idiot. And you’re kissable. Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
Embarrassingly enough, that simple comment makes Sherlock’s pale face flush as pink as Jennifer Wilson’s suitcase. “I stepped out of the bathroom not thirty minutes ago,” he mutters.
“If you had to ask me why, then the mirror was probably all foggy,” John teases. He kisses Sherlock again; a peck on the side of his lips. “That was for being adorable, if you’re wondering,” he says.
Sherlock harrumphs. “I am not adorable,” he protests indignantly. “Adorable is for kittens and babies and all sorts of other rubbish. I am none of the above listed.”
John pats his shoulder and walks off to prepare breakfast consisting of toast and jam. “Keep telling yourself that, love.”
Congratulations, brother mine. M
I’ve informed Mummy of your new romantic entanglement, seeing as you’d never get around to it yourself.
She expects to see you both for brunch on Sunday.
The urge to text back piss off, Mycroft is strong, but then John inquires as to who’s texting and what for, and rolls his eyes when Sherlock tells him. He plucks the mobile out of Sherlock’s hand, ignoring the squawk coming from Sherlock, and texts back,
Tell her that we can’t wait. J
Sunday rolls around much quicker than either of them expect it to. Which is a horrible turn of phrase, because time doesn’t change the way it passes. But, indeed, they wake up and suddenly it is Sunday.
“Sherlock,” John murmurs into Sherlock’s sleepy ear, shaking a duvet-clad shoulder to rouse his partner from sleep. “Wake up. Brunch with your mum, remember? Get up.”
Sherlock grumbles irritably. He doesn’t even open his eyes. “No,” he groans. He nuzzles further into the feather soft pillow, swiping away his drool.
John rolls his eyes. “You’re impossible,” he tells him. John shakes him more forcefully. “C’mon. I want to properly meet the woman who dealt with you for eighteen years on end.”
“Thirteen,” Sherlock corrects, his voice rumbling thunder, moreso than usual. “Was almost completely independent by fourteen.”
“Figures,” John mutters. “Still stands. Get up, Sherlock. We’ve two hours to get ready.” He drops a loving kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, and then nose, and then peppers an abundance all over Sherlock’s face. (John does this a disgusting amount. Sherlock never knows where to store all the love afterward.) Sherlock knows that it’s a trick to get him to smile and open his eyes and the whole of it. Damn him, it works.
Sherlock cracks his eyes open and is greeted with the sight of John Watson’s lips. An excellent way to start the day. John’s face immediately grows softer than it previously was, and he tucks a strand of Sherlock’s dark hair behind his ear. “We’ve got two hours,” he says again.
He tugs John back into the bed by his collar. John lets him. Sherlock says, “Make that one.”
Mummy is a pleasant, domestic lady. She greets them with a smile, ushering them in. Sherlock and John walk down the halls of his childhood (they seemed much longer and wider, as a young child) into the decorated, yet homely, kitchen. Light from the open windows pours into the room, coating it in soft white light. The plates are already set out on the table. John thanks Mummy, being the ever-polite English gentleman he is. Sherlock doesn’t bother, which earns him a flick on the ear. It’s almost as though he’s five years old again and being irritatingly obstinate.
Sherlock watches as John stares at the childhood photos hanging on the walls he used to call his home. John giggles over a young Sherlock— seven and two-thirds, Sherlock recalls– with his curly hair still a lighter, almost ginger colour that tangled all over his head. Sherlock’s face in the picture was one of unadulterated joy as he stood at the edge of a cliff overlooking a beach. He had speckles of sand still stuck in his hair and underneath his nails and on his clothes, and a small pirate’s hat with a feather rested atop his head. Sherlock feels himself blush. He looks down at his plate to hide it.
“Oh, he was just darling, John,” Mummy says with a glance at the photo. “He picked up a stick, thrust it into the air, and proclaimed himself ‘Yellowbeard.’ My little pirate,” she recalls wistfully. She grins at John. “It’s such a joy to have you here, you know.”
“Mummy— “
“You’re the first friend of Sherlock’s that I’ve gotten to meet in years. You’re delightful.”
John smiles back. He finishes off the piece of food on his fork. “Mmm. Well, I’m flattered. Thank you very much. And thank you for cooking such a delicious meal, Mrs Holmes.”
“Just ‘Mummy’ will do, John. Anyhow, it was no trouble at all,” she says. There’s a moment of silence that doesn’t quite have the opportunity to turn awkward before she grins. “Mycroft tells me that your friendship has blossomed into something truly beautiful,” Mummy adds with a wink. “You really are so good for my boy, John. I’ve read your blog. It’s wonderful, it truly is, and it keeps me up to date. Assures me he’s not going through this mess alone. We all despaired of his solidarity, you know. He’s not a lonesome creature, John. But you know that already.”
Sherlock does not have an intimate relationship with embarrassment, and it is not often he’s felt the overwhelming urge to curl up into a pathetic ball of a human until he withers and rots, but the urge strikes him straight in the chest then. If things go his way in the future, John will never see his mother ever again. Never. Again.
John takes his hand into a solid grip, running his thumbs over his knuckles. He looks to him, coaxing Sherlock’s gaze— look at me, Sherlock.
Sherlock looks.
John nods at him in that silent way that means it’s all alright. He looks back to Mummy and says, “Yeah, I know. Definitely know that.”
When they finally leave the Holmes manor, they’re hand-in-hand and Mummy is still loitering by the door, calling “You’re a darling, John, a darling!” behind them. Sherlock is silently thankful that he’s never brought anyone home to meet his parents before. Well. John hasn’t met his father yet. And hopefully he doesn’t for a long, long time, because this had been embarrassing enough.
Sherlock doesn’t catch what John says, but he watches as John grins and turns back to Mummy to say something in return. Probably a show of gratitude for being so kind to invite them over. Sherlock grits his teeth and slides his blue scarf over his pinkening zygoma.
When John turns back to Sherlock, their feet hitting the gravel in tandem, crackling underneath them like a bonfire, he chuckles at Sherlock’s mortification. Rude.
“You don’t have to be so dramatic,” he says. “It’s hardly the end of the world.”
Sherlock disagrees. “She brought out the photo album,” he returns gruffly, holding his shoulders stiffly up to his ears. “She showed off all of my— my—” he searches for a word, but nothing strong enough comes to mind to describe how horrific the photos are. “You must have no good opinion of me now.”
John looks honestly bewildered, his eyebrows raising. “Why wouldn’t I? Sherlock, it’s just childhood photos. Adorable childhood photos.” The thought of the photos brings a smile back to his face. “I had no idea you’d ever been a pirate bee.”
“John.”
“What?” He sing-songs innocently.
“Don’t tease me,” Sherlock grouses disapprovingly.
John rolls his eyes fondly. It’s silent for a moment before John says, “I liked seeing them. I liked seeing proof of you being… well, human. Everyone else always assumes that you’ve been this dark creature since birth and that I was the one to ‘fix’ you. But there’s proof otherwise. I just…” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t make much sense, even to me. But all of that is to say… I like seeing you being human,” he ends dumbly.
Sherlock stares. He stares and stares and stares. He could always rely on John to shock him by saying just the right thing at the right time. He squints. Swallows.
“...I love you,” he mutters, and though it comes out unsure and tentative, he means it with the intensity of the thousand burning suns that set his heart aflame every time John looks his way.
In response, John kisses him.