The morning after their first time, Sherlock startled John by taking his hand as they stepped down off the stoop onto Baker Street. He kept it tightly in his own for the ride to the crime scene (where he relinquished it with clear reluctance as they exited the cab) and again during the one to dinner, where he held it on the table between them at the tiny Burmese restaurant theyâd recently discovered.
Well, more than just held it. He stroked his thumb over the back of Johnâs knuckles as they worked their way through shrimp kat kyi hnyat and crispy chapati with peas, and brought their clasped hands to his lips as John declined the waiterâs suggestion of shwe yin aye for dessert. Sherlockâs hand on the small of Johnâs back guided him out of the restaurant, and he tipped Johnâs chin up for a brief kiss before taking his hand once more and hailing a cab for the ride home.
Every day after was both gloriously similar and endlessly surprising. Sherlockâs lips at his temple as he handed John a cup of tea. Sherlockâs arms around Johnâs waist, nuzzling behind his ear as John tried to finish the stir-fry. Sherlock nestling his toes under Johnâs thigh on the couch; leaning against him in bed to read; running a hand through Johnâs hair as he passed behind his seat at the desk; pulling him into the shower on a lazy Sunday morning.
This was Sherlock in love, and it took Johnâs breath away.
He wasnât different, not really. He still got lost in his head and forgot Johnâs presence. He still neglected to label the kidneys he stored in the freezer, left wet towels on the bathroom floor, and maneuvered the sheets so somehow John always got stuck lying in the wet spot. He deduced when he shouldnât, didnât do the shopping when he should, and left the bills in a pile for John every month.
No, Sherlock wasnât different. But somehow he was more.
When John had allowed himself to dream in years past, he had never imagined Sherlock as affectionate. He had assumed that if he ever were to witness Sherlock having a (real) relationship, that it would be a very private thing. Sherlock was, after all, an intensely private person. He was not often outwardly demonstrative toward those for whom he cared.
But maybe that had been a defense. A wall against a world that thought him unworthy of love, unworthy to love. Because from the moment they had stepped outside 221B that first morning after, with the security of Johnâs love wrapped around him, Sherlock had claimed John as his own in the eyes of the world. Though they were completely professional while working, even the least observant among the Yarders could see them grinning at each other, their forearms brushing deliberately as they knelt by a body. The first time Lestrade caught Sherlock with his hand on Johnâs knee as they waited for some test result or another, rather than bristling as expected and pulling away, Sherlock just flushed a little and left his hand there. Even when Sherlock put an arm around Johnâs waist to produce an eyeroll from Mycroft, his smile was always genuine and his fingertips always slipped under the edge of Johnâs jumper to find warm skin. There were brief notes scrawled on post-its and tucked into Johnâs sock drawer, texts at inappropriate moments that made John blush like a virgin, and small, thoughtful gifts he never anticipatedâcashmere socks on a particularly cold morning; a gorgeous new pen tucked into his notebook; a bouquet of sunflowers on a relentlessly gray afternoon.
John had never been loved as openly and wholly as Sherlock loved him, and where similar displays by people in his past had made him uncomfortable, Sherlockâs love opened his heart wide. It freed him.
John tried not to think about how close theyâd come to missing this. They hadnât, after all, and it did him no good to dwell on time lost or past pain. Sometimes, though, the regret pushed a little too hard, and overwhelmed him. He tried to hide it from Sherlock every time, but a consulting detective in love cannot be fooled by a melancholy doctor. He would let Sherlock lead him to their bed and hold him until it passed and he was once again ready to step into the light.
Yes, Sherlock was moreâmore than John had expected, and more, he suspected, than he deserved, and John loved him more than a lifetime would allow him to express, this Sherlock for whom love came as easily as breath. But he only had but one lifetime, so it would have to suffice. Sherlockâs love deserved careful handling, and John intended to give it nothing less than his very best for each and every one of his remaining days.
No, John had never dreamed this.
This was better than any dream.
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