#flashbang event

…But right now, he didn’t recognise the John Watson in front of him. He had, of course, seen Watson drunk plenty of times before – cheeks tinged pink, stuttering more than usual, giggly and very affectionate, warm, soft, endearing – yet here, surrounded by all his old school mates, he was loud, brash, and downright rude. A different person entirely.

Sherlock hated it.

Feeling thoroughly brushed aside by his best friend, Sherlock slipped outside. Another glance told him Watson hadn’t even noticed. It was insulting. Watson could read him like a book, knew his cues and preferences and oddities better than anyone. How thoughtful of him, now, to forcibly drag him to an event only to ignore him the entire time. Resentfully, Sherlock thought he should’ve taken on any one of the boring cases, or anything really, if it meant spending the weekend not pretending to be the corner lamp.

It was a few days ago that Watson received the invite on Facebook from an old classmate to attend an unofficial secondary school reunion party. He was ecstatic, and predictably, had immediately asked Sherlock if he wanted to come with, claiming it had been a while since they had gone on a trip together. Sherlock thought it more logical for Mariana to come instead, but she had said something about going to Imani’s house while winking excessively at Watson behind his back. Sherlock still wasn’t sure what she meant by that.

And so Sherlock tagged along. He had been somewhat convinced that he could maybe enjoy himself as long as he stuck by Watson, but he supposed that was just wishful thinking, seeing as they had only really enjoyed Swindon the last time because they were alone on a case. Sure enough, when a group of men approached Watson, cheering and swinging their arms over his shoulders before handing him pint after pint, Watson forgot about him entirely. After that, other than a brief introduction of who Sherlock was, he had barely spared him another glance.

His fingers twitched for a cigarette. Instinctively, he patted his pockets. Nothing. He was trying to quit, of course, for Watson. Because no matter how convinced Watson was that his logic finally broke through to Sherlock, it really was his personal dislike of cigarette smoke that cemented the decision.

And yet there Watson was, surrounded by smoke and vape in that poorly filtered function hall without a care in the world. Some doctor he was.

“I hope you weren’t trying to sneak a cigarette out here.”

So occupied with his annoyance and fidgeting for something else to do with his fingers, he hadn’t even realised the subject of his thoughts had slipped out until he was right beside him, the smell of booze and smoke suddenly filling his senses. He willed his heart to stop beating so erratically.

“I don’t see you telling off all your mates for smoking,” Sherlock said, his tone a touch too sharp.

Watson chuckled, awkwardly, tilting his head slightly in confusion at Sherlock’s tone. “Yeah well, I don’t care about them. I care about you.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“What was that?” Watson was on alert now, not too drunk that he couldn’t detect Sherlock’s sarcasm, as rare as it was.

“Nothing.”

“No, I definitely heard you saying something.” Watson’s eyebrows furrowed, concerned, taking a step closer to Sherlock. “You good, mate? Was it too loud in there?”

Sherlock took a step back. “It was, indeed, quite loud, no thanks to your contribution.”

Watson’s eyes widened, looking visibly taken aback.

“Okay, what is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“No, clearly, you do.” Watson crossed his arms. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. You were giving me judgy eyes the entire time I was in there.”

“Judgy eyes?” Sherlock asked. “No it wasn’t judgy eyes, Watson. Frankly, I was just appalled at how far you were willing to go to appeal to your lads. Is being loud and drunk and ignoring your best friend– who came willingly with you, by the way–”

“Ha, willingly–”

“–the new fad? Because I definitely missed that public service announcement. Thank you for informing me, but I’d rather not act outrageously to ingratiate myself with asshole people.” Sherlock took a deep breath.

“You’re looking at me like that again.”

Suddenly, he realised how wound up he was. Rapid breathing, accelerated heart beat, sweaty palms. He could feel his lip curling and face tensed, in an expression of disdain or perhaps simply disappointment.

“Judgy eyes, is it?”

Watson’s eyebrows furrowed. “Actually, no– I got it wrong, it wasn’t judgy eyes. You’re looking at me like you don’t know who I am. But honestly I don’t know who you are, either, so I suppose it’s all fine and dandy.”

It was like a bucket of cold water poured onto Sherlock’s head.

“I–”

Watson huffed, eyes wide and incredulous. “‘Cause I can’t believe that’s what this is about. What, me acting a little bit drunk and changing myself up a bit to better fit in with people? You’ve already so graciously pointed out how my ‘self esteem wanes at the melancholy winds of autumn’ or some bollocks and you’ve definitely seen me drunk before – hell, even worse drunk–”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Sherlock shot back, suddenly finding his words. “But not like this. Not surrounded by your old classmates, clearly desperate to prove something to fix that fragile ego of yours. Calling people “slobs” and badmouthing and exchanging what frankly should be considered blackmail and drowning yourselves in copious amounts of beer,” Sherlock breathed, “Tell me, was the validation from your peers worth it? Was the compliment-fishing successful? Has enough women fawned all over you to sustain you for the next year?”

Hurt flashed across Watson’s face. Sherlock immediately felt guilty, but before he could amend anything, Watson spoke again.

“Is that what you think of me?”

“…I don’t know what to think.”

Silence fell over them. The longer it grew, the more tense Sherlock felt, and the more he second-guessed himself – not a common thing for him to do, but it wasn’t uncommon when it came to John Watson. Slowly, he was starting to recognise his Watson again – his concern, his consideration, his insecurities. But listening to how he had been behaving this evening… it simply didn’t align with the Watson he knew.

Then again, he knew of how strongly Watson felt. He knew such strong emotions, no matter how much Sherlock admired them, were what led to Watson’s shoddy self-esteem issues and failure of rejection.

Finally, Watson spoke again.

“I don’t know how obvious this is, especially to someone who can deduce someone’s entire life in a single look, but I was not well-liked in school. I was the weird kid who was pitied because I had a dead dad. So when I started secondary school, I overcompensated, tried to act tough, copied what the boys my year were doing – and it worked. People liked whoever that boy was, so I just became that boy. I joined the football team, and suddenly I was one of the lads, people cheering me on and clapping me on the back for a good game. Then I started flirting with every pretty girl I came across because I was starting to look at boys the same way and that couldn’t possibly be right, it didn’t fit with who I should be.”

Sherlock felt that initial pang of guilt bury itself deeper in him.

“Don’t you know what that’s like, Sherlock? To feel like you have to change yourself in order to meet the expectations people have of you? To behave a certain way to fit the norms around you?" John stared him deep in the eyes. "Because I think you do.”

Sherlock did know. Of course he did. The way he masked throughout school before he even knew what masking was, all while playing constant catch-up to golden-child Mycroft under the impossible standards of their parents.

He understood John even more than he thought.

Sherlock ducked his head in shame. “I’m sorry, John. I shouldn’t have attacked you like that. I should’ve known – well, I did know, though not to that extent, but still, I shouldn’t have–”

John raised a hand to cut off his rambled apologies, shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry. You’re right, I’ve been acting like a dick.”

“I didn’t say–”

“–You didn’t, but I was.” Despite himself, John huffed out a laugh, before it turned into a sigh. “Besides, I shouldn’t have dragged you along to something you clearly wouldn’t enjoy. To be honest, I didn’t want to come here anyway. But I saw the invite and… I dunno. It was like a switch had turned on, like I was back in school and needed to prove myself again. And so I thought it would be more bearable if I at least had you with me. Then, of course, I actually did get here, and actually being surrounded by the people who only saw me as one thing throughout school, I just…”

“Regressed back into that persona?” Sherlock suggested. John nodded, sighing again.

“I couldn’t just be myself, could I? Why would they like a 36-year-old blown-up podcaster barely scraping by?”

Sherlock bit back a sigh of his own. His podcaster really was silly, wasn’t he? “Who cares what these strangers you knew twenty years ago think?” Sherlock gestured to the people partying inside, oblivious to everything – to all the greatness the real John Watson truly possessed. “Mariana likes that podcaster. Archie likes that podcaster. Stamford and Nadia like that podcaster.” He took a step forward. He was close enough now that John had to tilt his head back to look him fully in the eyes, as if searching them for lies. Sherlock knew John would merely find nothing but the truth he had denied himself for so long. “I like that podcaster.”

John’s eyes widened, complicated emotions swirling in them. Then he smiled sadly. "But see, Sherlock, that's just it. Like. And I appreciate it, of course, but... despite that persona being, quite frankly, a bit of a dick, sometimes it's that persona that people find attractive, you know? And yeah, it's been a while since I've dated seriously, but I like to think I'm still someone worth lo-" he paused, "worthy of romance. Sorry for being a hopeless romantic, I just-"

"More-than-like."

John blinked. "Huh?"

Sherlock swallowed. This was it. "I... more-than-like you."

John was still staring at him like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What- you?"

Sherlock let out a small huff of amusement. “Well, I doubt Stamford and Nadia more-than-like you, seeing as they’re married and all. And Mariana and Archie definitely don’t feel that way towards you either.”

“Sherlock…” John sighed, voice quiet and genuinely pleading with him. For him to be honest. And there it was – his inherent insecurity. And as much as Sherlock loved John for who he was, low self-esteem and all, he truly wished John could see just how deep that love ran.

“Haven’t you already observed, John?” He reached out for John’s hands, which he took on instinct. “Can’t you understand? You don’t need to fake yourself to prove anything to anyone.” Sherlock raised one of John’s hands to his lips – not exactly kissing it, but murmuring his words into his knuckles as if to etch them into John for him to understand. John’s breath hitched, but he made no effort to withdraw his hand. “Not when I need you, the real you: the man who unwittingly brought meaning back into my life when he entered that lab, the man who knows my habits like he knows his own, the man who sees all my flaws and loves me for it anyway.”

John chuckled in disbelief, shaking his head, running the hand not currently pressed against Sherlock’s lips down his face. “God. God, Sherlock. I really have been stupid tonight, haven’t I?”

“Foolish, maybe,” Sherlock said, lips upturning slightly. “Silly, certainly. But not stupid, John. Never.”

“I’m glad you’re here, then.” John shifted their hands so their fingers were now intertwined, falling to swing idly between them. Despite the cold John’s hand felt warm and rough. Sherlock wouldn’t have it any other way. “To stop me from being foolish and silly.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand. “As long as you’re also there to do the same for me.”

John squeezed back, smiling. “Always.”

Another silence fell over them, this time marginally more comfortable.

“Let’s go home.”

Sherlock blinked at John’s sudden declaration. “Back to Carol’s house? Now? Don’t you want to say goodbye to your friends?”

John rolled his eyes, affectionately. “You know as well as I do they’re not my friends. I don’t even remember half their names. But no – I meant back to Baker Street.”

Oh, of course. Not John’s childhood home, in a town he had outgrown years ago, with faces he barely recognised. Their home. Their bubble of comfort and routine, but also excitement and Mariana and Archie and love; so, so much love.

Sherlock nodded, smile widening. “Home it is.”

Yo! I participated in a Sherlock & Co Flashbang event! Check out the fic my partner for the event somePandalol made, aye? You can find it Here on ao3, as well as other folks submissions in the Sherlock & Co Flash Bang October 2024 collection!

He hadn’t heard anything over that roaring sound. As he had approached the bend that took him to the bellows of Reichenbach, Mariana’s voice had faded into the background, the sound of rushing water taking its place. It was bigger than it was yesterday. They’d all seen it at a distance, seemingly nothing impressive from their place on the other side of the waterfall. Sherlock dragged them up a hiking path on the other side, wanting to scope out the scene. As beautiful as the views were, looking out across the valley and mountains on the other side, traditional Swiss houses on their respective plots of land sitting politely amongst wandering sheep, John couldn’t help but complain. All in good fun, of course, but it was true that the steep hills and uneven stones had made the climb difficult.

That didn’t matter to him now. The moment he’d reached town, realized no one was in danger, realized he’d been tricked, he turned and sprinted from the hotel without a word. Mariana was hot on his tail, all the more concerned by his terrified face and quick entry followed by his immediate exit. He’d barely managed to get any words out as they both ran across town.

Sherlock. Professor Moriarty. Waterfall. Danger.

John had just been up there, he knew the way. And despite being sore from having climbed it earlier that day, and having hiked the other side the day previous, he barely noticed the ache in his legs and chest. Adrenaline surged through his body, tunnel vision taking over. Only one car passed while he and Mariana sprinted towards the bottom of the mountain that would take them to Reichenbach—they didn’t even slow down.

From road, to mud, to rock, to road, to rock, to road, to mud, more mud—

John slipped more than once, but he never felt any pain when he hit the ground. All he could think of was getting to Sherlock before the professor did. He didn’t think he would beat Mariana to the top. John had spent plenty of time putting himself down (in jest, he always told himself, but deep down he knew that wasn’t entirely true) for the muscle he’d lost since being injured in Ukraine. For the weight he’d gained since settling into Baker Street. Mariana was thinner, taller, but ultimately not the one who had spent the last two and a half years on the ground doing the work to chase down criminals across London with Sherlock Holmes.

He rounded the corner, putting all of his strength into his legs. The waterfall had loomed over him when he stood at the bottom, but around the bend, all was quiet. He needed to keep going, he was close, he just had to make it up to the top. Between the rain from earlier and the cast-off from the waterfall, the stone path was more of a hinderance than a help. Halfway up the final hill, John’s foot caught a puddle and he went crashing down. He barely felt a thing, scrambling right back up onto his feet.

It had rained all night and all morning. Not the kind of rain that settled over London, a brief pour before returning to a consistent drizzle. No, this had been a proper spring storm. All through the night, rain had pounded the roof of their hotel, the old building rattling through thunder, and lightning shining through the thin curtains. It kept waking everyone up, but John suspected Sherlock didn’t sleep at all. The whole morning he figured it was because they were in an unfamiliar environment—Sherlock was uncomfortable with the creaking bed, the loud storm, their brand-new surroundings. But John knew better now. It was because he knew. He knew.

Sherlock knew this would happen.

Of course he fucking knew.

And he kept John out of the loop.

John blinked, only just beginning to realize how badly he was trembling. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, just past the fork in the path that led to the precipice beside Reichenbach. How long he stared at the scene. A smashed microphone scattered along the muddy, stoney path. The mangled fence. No Sherlock to be seen. Not even Professor Moriarty. He didn’t realize he was standing directly under a runoff until his hair began to droop down in front of his eyes, soaking wet.

“John?” Not Sherlock’s voice. Mariana’s.

John couldn’t move. Her voice barely pierced through the sound of the waterfall. Was it even Mariana’s? For a moment it sounded like Sherlock’s. Then it sounded like Mary’s.

Oh god…

No, that wasn’t him, that was…He slowly found the power to turn. Mariana was a bit damp, the waterfall’s spray not sparing her, her deep red curls stuck to her face through a combined effort of sweat and water. Her glasses fogged up with every pant. Then John heard her again. “Oh god…no. No, no, no, oh my god. Oh god, oh god—”

The local police pulled Moriarty’s body out of the river downstream late that night.

There was no sign of Sherlock.

John and Mariana kept holding out hope for something. Anything at all. Footsteps leading away from that fateful ledge near the waterfall? There was a set of two footprints, but they were most certainly from an earlier couple hiking up past Reichenbach. Backpackers headed on to Rosenlaui. Not Sherlock.

Undeterred by everyone’s warnings (including the large, obvious sign), John had made his way down towards the bellows, desperate to find something. Anything. Perhaps if there was nothing there, it was evidence Sherlock hadn’t fallen at all. Maybe he’d really gotten away, covered his tracks like he would know how to do. The steep drop-off to his left didn’t even occur to him as a danger. One wrong move, one more slip, and he’d be dealing with a hell of a landing.

He made it down in one piece.

The water was dark and murky, impossible to see through with the water falling at a rate unlike anyone had seen in months. The storm had done a number on filling the river above. Despite his desperation, John knew better than to dive right into the water himself. But he still waded up to his calves, leaning over to drag his hands along the mud beneath, searching for—

Searching for what, exactly?

Can’t prove a negative. Even if he didn’t find anything, it didn’t mean Sherlock didn’t go over the ledge. Didn’t fall through that tiny, useless chain-link fence.

Regardless of how hard anyone hoped—prayed, even—John still found a shoe.

Mariana had scolded the both of them for not packing proper hiking boots, only boarding the plane with the trainers they had on. John had paid for it by slipping on his way back up to Reichenbach. Back to Sherlock.

Falling cost him time. Precious time he evidently couldn’t spare. But all John ended up with on his falls was scrapes on his hands and mud down his front. Sherlock’s fall had resulted in something far, far worse.

John and Mariana didn’t get back to the hotel until long after it had gone dark. They barely spoke a word between them as they trekked back to their small, dinky hotel in the center of town. No officers had offered to give them a ride. They all spoke quite good English, used to all sorts of international backpackers getting lost and stuck in various places. But it wasn’t a language barrier that had caused difficulties, it was their unwillingness to let John and Mariana help in any meaningful way. It didn’t matter if they were a private detective agency, British civilians had no jurisdiction in a missing person’s investigation in small-town Switzerland. Even if said missing person was the detective part of their detective agency.

The officers chatted amongst themselves as John and Mariana finally decided to slip away. John didn’t bother asking Mariana to translate. He knew “Brienz” was a nearby town at the end of the river, having thoroughly studied the maps of the region Sherlock shoved in his direction. He knew “Interlaken” was the next biggest city after that, at the other end of the lake the river fed into.

They weren’t searching for a missing person. They were searching for a body.

Neither of them had any complaints about damp clothes, or bloodied hands, or muddied trousers as they sat next to each other on John’s hotel bed. Mariana pressed herself tightly into his side, shivering as a chill set in. The silence was only broken up by an occasional sniffle from her. John just stared down at his shoes, still tied and caked in mud. Time moved oddly. He wasn’t sure when his vision had gone blurry.

John cleared his throat. “I’m…going to shower.” He barely managed to get the words past his cracked lips. Mariana looked over at him as he moved to stand.

She kept a steady hand on his arm, standing up with him. “John—”

“I need a shower,” he said, voice clipped, still not meeting her eyes. Mariana moved to stand in front of him. It took several moments, but he eventually raised his head.

She squeezed his arm as soon as his eyes met hers. “I’ll be right here.” He nodded. Of course she would. Switzerland was too expensive for them to afford anything nice. They’d opted for one of the cheapest rooms they could find that didn’t have a bathroom shared with the whole floor, meaning all three of them had been crammed together in a twin-sized bed each, all in the same room.

Slowly, he managed to peel himself away and retrieve the pajamas he’d thrown haphazardly onto his hotel bed that morning. It felt like ages ago now. Years. Like his entire memory was being replaced by his time spent wading through riverbeds looking for any proof his best friend had survived tumbling down a waterfall.

John wanted to make it quick, get back to Mariana before she felt the truth of the matter set in—before she started to really feel alone. But the warmth of the water beckoned him to stay. He got to work, scrubbing himself down as best he could. He had to get rid of the dirt beneath his fingernails. He had to wipe away the dried blood from his palms. The memories had to go. John didn’t dare let a single drop from that accursed waterfall remain on his skin. He was burning red all over as he scraped the cloth violently over his skin and steam filled the room, threatening to suffocate him.

But just as he rid himself of any evidence, a new thought entered his mind. He’d just erased all the last bits of Sherlock off of him. The mud from the path he’d walked on, the water from the river he’d drowned in.

John felt sick. Properly sick, he felt like—

He leapt out of the shower, barely kneeling in front of the toilet before throwing up what little he’d actually eaten that day.

There came a pounding on the door. “John?” Mariana’s muffled voice sounded from behind it.

John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, heart pounding and chest heaving. “F-Fine! I’m fine, Mariana.”

“John, let me—” The doorknob jiggled.

“Unless you wanna see me naked, you don’t want to do that, Mariana.” The jiggling stopped. “I-I’m fine…” His voice trailed off, probably barely audible behind the door and over the sound of the shower. “Just give me a minute, okay?”

After a moment, she answered in a soft tone John barely caught. “Okay…”

He took a second to reign in his breathing. When had he started crying again? With shaking legs, he rose upright and stumbled back into the shower, rubbing a hand over his face. The hot water pounded against him. Better than being pelted by freezing water.

John successfully held back his next bout of nausea.

When he finally stepped out from the shower, properly dressed, but still not quite dry, Mariana was standing right outside waiting for him. She was so close to the door, he nearly bumped into her. “Oh! Sorry,” she mumbled, stumbling back right before they could whack heads.

John’s brow furrowed. “Were…were you waiting there the whole time?” Mariana didn’t answer but rather avoided his eyes instead. He cleared his throat. “It’s a bit…sorry, I made a bit of a mess in there. Water’s all over the floor.”

“I don’t…um, I actually don’t really…want to shower.” John frowned, and Mariana grimaced. “I know, I know it’s…I-I feel gross. Ugh, John, I feel so gross, but I-I don’t know if…” Her voice cracked and her shoulders began to jerk up and down. “I-I don’t really want to be alone right now—” Her own sobs cut her off, but John was right behind, pulling her into his arms. It didn’t take more than a second for him to join her in grief.

The two of them sank to the floor right there, pressed up against the wall. Their bodies shook in unison, both of them clinging to the other. Neither of them could get out a word. They didn’t have to.

John woke up with a yell stuck in his throat. His whole body jerked from some since-forgotten night terror, waking Mariana with a start. The two of them had miraculously managed to find sleep, but only holding each other in a single bed. Twin-sized be damned, neither of them were willing to brave the coldness of being alone. There was something, some lingering feeling from his dreams. John couldn’t put his finger on it. Mary’s face melting into Sherlock’s. Warm blood seeping onto his hands, quickly plunged into freezing, alpine water.

“John.” Mariana’s voice wasn’t soothing, or reassuring. It wasn’t what he would expect to hear to be comforted from a nightmare. No, it was laced with terror, a hushed gasp barely breezing past her lips as she smacked his arm. He turned over to look at her.

Instead, he was greeted with the back of her head. Over her shoulder, the shadow of a figure lingered in the doorway. He shot straight up, scrambling for the bedside lamp.

Click.

A soft, yellow glow illuminated the room. Illuminated the man standing under the doorframe. His sharp features were more gaunt than ever before. His usually golden-toned skin had gone pale, as if his body had been completely drained of blood. His hair, always a bit of a mess, was wilder than either John or Mariana had ever seen it. It had barely dried, sticking in every-which-way, some curls still damp against his skin. All of his clothes clung to his body. Noticeably, he was missing a shoe.

John flung himself out of bed, but not in the direction of the man who looked all too much like Sherlock Holmes. He stood on the opposite side of the bed, staring as quick breaths ripped through his body. “Oh my god.” Mariana slowly sat up the rest of the way. “Sherlock—”

John took off like a bullet, lunging at his friend and wrapping his arms around him. He expected the man to anticipate it, which was his mistake. Instead, he all but tackled Sherlock, sending the two of them tumbling out of the hotel room. They hit the floor with an echoing bang, practically shaking the whole floor of the old, budget hotel.

“Sherlock!” Mariana jumped up, not caring one bit about her volume. She greeted them out in the hallway, falling to her knees and pulling both of them up and into her arms. “You idiot,” she sobbed, “you asshole!” Despite it all, John found himself laughing. And crying. Glad. And furious. He squeezed Sherlock tighter, his own shirt taking on some of the water left in Sherlock’s clothes.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, you…you…” He couldn’t even formulate anything coherent.

Neither John nor Mariana were sure exactly how long they sat like that, half in their room, half in the hallway, a mess of limbs on the floor. Miraculously, no travelers poked their head out to tell them off or yell at them in another language. So, uninterrupted, the three of them stayed there.

Eventually, John found the strength to pull himself back from Sherlock. He didn’t dare let go, lest this all be a figment of his imagination. His eyes found Sherlock’s, and the sight made his heart sink. It was like Sherlock was just staring straight through him. They were looking at each other, but there was nothing there. The spark that John usually saw in the depths of Sherlock’s deep, dark eyes was nowhere to be found. “Sherlock. Sherlock, mate, what the fuck happened?” No answer. “Come on, talk to me.”

Sherlock just blinked lethargically and the pit in John’s stomach grew. He slowly climbed to his feet. “Let’s get you inside, okay? Christ, you’re freezing, where’s your jacket?” A ridiculous question, John knew that. It was somewhere caught on a branch or a rock, still being battered by the river. Or maybe already sunken to the bottom of the lake at the end. "Mariana.” She nodded, standing up as well, offering Sherlock a hand. He just stared at it. John’s hands shook. “Sherlock, come on.” He simply slipped his hand under Sherlock’s arm, pulling the lanky man to his feet.

He wasn’t exactly dead weight, but he certainly wasn’t aiming to be helpful. Together, they all stumbled back into their hotel room. Mariana locked the door behind them, turning on the overhead light. Sherlock grimaced and pulled in a sharp breath. She immediately whispered an apology and turned it back off again, leaving the bedside lamp as their only source of light. For now. The sun was just barely beginning to rise, still hidden behind the mountains, but a glow was beginning to spread across their peaks.

John helped Sherlock down onto the nearest bed, standing right in front of him and keeping his hands firmly on his friend’s shoulders. “Sherlock, talk to us. What the hell happened up there?”

There was very little doubt in John’s mind that Sherlock had really gone over that cliff at Reichenbach. The man was shivering, still damp, and had mud in all sorts of unusual places. Like he’d crawled out a river somewhere. It was a miracle. Nothing short of a miracle that Sherlock hadn’t hit his head on a rock on his way down. That he hadn’t lost consciousness and drowned. That Moriarty hadn’t bested him and managed to kill him in some other cruel way.

John reached up and touched Sherlock’s face. The man flinched, but didn’t pull away. He was already sporting an impressive black eye. John knew well enough he’d been punched—not like he’d fall perfectly on a rock to hurt him exactly like that. As John’s eyes flicked along Sherlock’s body, he started seeing more bruises than he would have liked. But it was okay. If a few bruises were the price of survival, it would just have to be fine.

The bed creaked under Mariana’s weight as she slowly lowered herself down onto the bed right next to Sherlock. She watched him closely. Nobody said a word. Sherlock wouldn’t meet John’s eyes. John’s throat felt tight. “Sherlock,” he said slowly, crouching down to be eye level with his seated flatmate. “Are you hurt?” Sherlock met his eyes again, but with that same look. That blankness.

What the hell was he doing? John was just standing here in shock, thanking whatever power that be that Sherlock was here and alive. He shouldn’t just be standing there; he should be figuring out what was wrong. Something was wrong. Definitely very wrong.

He moved his hand along Sherlock’s jaw down to rest on his neck. He applied pressure, checking the time on the clock on the nightstand and counting the heartbeats. After a few moments, he shook his head. “Mate, you’re freezing.” Sluggish pulse. Cold to the touch. Still damp. Who knows how long Sherlock had been fighting back against the current of that river; how far it had taken him and how long the trek back to the hotel would have been. And with only one shoe to top it all off. John looked over at Mariana, still clinging tightly to Sherlock’s side, almost afraid that letting go would make him cease to exist. “Grab some blankets. And some of his clothes.”

She burst into action, grabbing Sherlock’s suitcase from underneath his bed. John sighed, keeping a tight hold on the man in front of him, once again avoiding his gaze. “Sherlock, we’ve gotta get you out of these clothes and into something dry, okay? Can’t have you catching pneumonia after you managed to survive all of that.” Sherlock barely moved a muscle, only letting his eyes flick back and forth, taking in his surroundings and avoiding John. John’s heart clenched, but he pushed past it. “Come on, mate, work with me here.”

Without asking permission, John began to undo the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. The man began to squirm. “Sherlock,” John said sternly, not stopping for a moment. Mariana appeared by his side, folded clothes under one arm and a stack of blankets stolen from the other two beds under the other. John looked up at her and nodded. “Great. Thanks, Mari.”

She set everything down on the bed and kneeled beside John, looking at Sherlock. “Are you alright?” she asked softly. Sherlock met her eyes for only a brief second, quickly looking down at his lap.

Once John got the last of his buttons undone, Sherlock began to pull away. John kept a steadying hand on his arm. “Hey. Hey, Sherlock, come on.”

“’m sorry…”

His voice was so quiet, so hoarse, that both John and Mariana nearly missed it. Mariana shook her head. “No,” she said quickly, “don’t apologize, Sherlock, you don’t need to.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” John said slowly. There was something deep in his chest that felt like anger. Anger that he’d managed to be tricked, angry at Sherlock for not letting him on his plan. Anger at the universe for daring to put them in a position like this. “We’re just glad you’re…that y-you’re okay.” The word “alive” felt bitter on his tongue. “Come on, we’ve gotta get you into something warmer.”

With no audible protest from Sherlock, John began pulling the man’s shirt off, ready to ball it up and toss it aside. But as he took it in his hands, he brushed across the collar and paused, staring down at it. The light-blue shirt, darkened from water, had a deep stain along the collar, dripping down the back. John’s mouth went dry. “Mate, are you bleeding?” Without waiting for an answer, John reached over and began to prod the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock pulled away with a grimace.

John’s fingers didn’t come away bloody, but he most certainly felt some blood-caked curls only just beginning to dry. “Shit. Come on, let me take a look—”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock repeated, a bit clearer this time.

John shook his head. “It’s alright, Sherlock, you’re alright, just let me take a look.” He took a seat next to the detective, leaning over to comb through the man’s hair to look for the wound. Sherlock was a little more cooperative, flanked by John and Mariana. He still flinched away, but John remained steady. “Mariana,” he said, not losing focus on the task at hand, “could you grab some clean cloths?”

Without a word, she shot to her feet, striding quickly towards the sink.

“I…I understand it’s late…” Sherlock muttered.

“Yeah,” John said with a huff of a laugh, “barely sunrise. But it’s okay. You don’t have to worry about that, Sherls, it doesn’t matter.”

Mariana was by John’s side again, handing over two cloths, one dry and one damp. “Thanks,” John said quickly, prodding the back of Sherlock’s head again.

Sherlock’s eyes drifted over to Mariana, now holding one of Sherlock’s clean shirts tightly in her hands. His frown deepened. “Where’d you get tha’?” Sherlock’s words were a bit slurred. John paused.

Mariana looked down at the shirt in her hands. “Just out of your suitcase. Should be clean, don’t worry.”

“I…” Sherlock shook his head. “Sorry, I just didn’ know what to do.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” John reassured. “You did what you had to. Professor Moriarty won’t be bothering us anymore, I can promise you that.”

At that, Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “What?”

Everyone paused, sitting stock-still. John slowly moved to face Sherlock more fully. “He’s dead, Sherlock. He didn’t survive falling down Reichenbach. But you did. Thank god, somehow, you did.”

Sherlock just continued to stare at John, still blank, still like he was looking right through him. After several long moments, Sherlock opened his mouth again. “I’m sorry to bother you, but…I think I need help.”

John’s stomach dropped. “That’s what we’re here for, mate, that’s what we’re doing. Mariana?”

“On it.”

Together they managed to get a fresh shirt on him—a flannel pajama top. He was clammy to the touch, shivering beneath each layer they stacked on top of him. John located the wound (Sherlock would be left with an impressive bump for a while) and was pleased to find it wasn’t actively bleeding. Mariana left John to handle getting Sherlock out of his wet trousers and into something a bit more comfortable. Happy with their work, the two of them both sat on either edge of the bed. Mariana watched closely as John cleaned away the blood and dirt on the back of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them, still frowning. “I-I don’t understand.”

Mariana cocked her head. “What don’t you understand, Sherlock?” She moved closer.

“Why you’re helping me.”

That wasn’t at all what John expected to hear.  His frown deepened. “What the hell do you mean? Why wouldn’t we help you?”

“You didn’ call for an ambulance,” he mumbled, “isn’t that what you’re s’posed to do?”

John actually fought a smile. “Mate, you don’t need an ambulance. You aren’t in any immediate danger; I know how to treat some bumps and early stages of hypothermia. Now, if you’d been any further along that’d be a different story. Can’t give you warm intravenous fluids in a shitty hotel room, I’m afraid,” he chuckled.

Sherlock didn’t look any less confused. “Wouldn’ mos’ people call an ambulance if an injured stranger showed up ‘n their room?”

John’s blood went cold. For a moment it felt like he’d been the once who’d fallen into an icy, Swiss river. He bit his tongue. Mariana managed to speak before he could. “Sherlock…what the hell are you talking about?”

He turned to her, a curious expression on his face, but didn’t say a word. “Hey,” John said sharply. He moved out from behind Sherlock. The man looked over at him, eyes still glazed over, still in a haze. “Sherlock, do you know where you are right now?”

He had that same look in his eyes. Dull, muddied. Sherlock shook his head. “Um…I don’t know if…” His hands twitched and he frowned again.

“If what,” John urged, looking for something—anything.

Sherlock began to fumble, teeth chattering. “I don’…I dunno…” His body began to tremble. “Why d-did…why ‘m I wet?”

John’s body went tense. “Sherlock,” he said slowly. But there was that same nothingness staring right back at him. “No. Come on, mate, you managed to get back to our hotel room, you know where you are.”

“John.”

Mariana’s warning tone gave him pause. He hadn’t realized he’d been raising his voice. John’s heart pounded against his ribcage, his whole chest aching far worse than when he ran to that cliff up Reichenbach. He waited for Sherlock to snap out of it; tell him it was all a joke in poor taste. But that wouldn’t be like Sherlock. A joke of this magnitude without resulting in some sort of research? No.

“Don’t look at me like that,” John murmured. Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched. “You know where you are, Sherlock, and you know you’re not a stranger.”

“John,” Mariana warned again.

“I’m…I was looking for my friends.” He moved to get up. “Apologies, I’ve…I-I’ve got the wrong room.”

Mariana put a hand on his shoulder, easing him back down. “No, Sherlock. You don’t. You had the key, you got in. These are your clothes; you’re in the right place.”

He began to shake, and this time John couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or something entirely out of his wheelhouse. “I was in a river…” He looked down at myself. “M-My clothes…”

Oh. John didn’t know why he hadn’t considered it before. Sherlock nearly died. Really, he should have died. Professor James Moriarty hadn’t survived the fall down onto the rocks below, why would Sherlock be so lucky? He’d been beaten up, tossed over the edge of a cliff, and nearly drowned in a river in a foreign country. That would fuck anyone’s sense of reality up—that would give anyone a shock.

John reached out, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, look at me.” The man looked up, trembling under John’s touch. “You’re alright, yeah? You’re safe. We’re all here in our hotel room in Meiringen, remember? Switzerland? You helped Mariana pick it out. Had a bit of a spat over it, actually.” He glanced to Mariana, who caught on quickly.

“You wanted something nicer,” she said, “and I can’t blame you. Frankly, this hotel sucks. But it’s all we could afford to put on the company card. Switzerland prices, sheesh,” she said, almost laughing.

“…Sauvage…”

She chuckled. “Yeah, you wanted to book there. But, Sherlock, really? That was waaayy out of budget. In your dreams. There was no way I could have pulled that off.”

“I-I was kidding.”

“You still need to work on your sarcasm, mate,” John said. “We really thought you were considering putting us in massive debt with that one.”

There was a long pause before Sherlock spoke up again. “…I’m cold.”

“Alright,” said Mariana, “scoot over.” Before either man clued in on what she was doing, she moved right in next to Sherlock, pulling the covers up over her. Sherlock looked a bit affronted, but didn’t stop her. She settled in right next to Sherlock, and she could feel just how cold he was. “Jesus, you’d think you’d drowned in a river or something.” Her laugh was only half-hearted, realizing maybe her joke wasn’t in the best taste.

“I…I did.”

“Nearly,” John corrected, holding up a pointed finger. “You didn’t actually drown.”

“No…No, I did.” John and Mariana watched him curiously. “I-I think I…” His eyes went wide as he searched for an explanation. “I died.” The others furiously shook their heads. “No, I did. I did, I fell, it was loud, and cold, and I couldn’t see, and I couldn’t hear, and it—” Sherlock choked on his own words. Tears sprang up in his eyes. “It was cold. I couldn’t breathe. I can’t…I-I can’t breathe.”

In the same instant, Mariana wrapped her arms around him and John lifted the covers, jumping under to join them. The bed barely fit two, and it was far too small for three, so he half dangled off, but John couldn’t find it in him to care. They both clung to Sherlock, feeling his chest jerk up and down as he failed to control his breathing.

“Easy,” John said softly, “easy. Listen to me, Sherlock. You can breathe. You can, I promise, just copy me.” He grabbed his hand, placing it firmly against his own chest. “Like this, mate, yeah? Like this. Slowly now, slow breaths. In…and out. Okay?” Sherlock still trembled, but color started to return to his cheeks. “Exactly. Perfect, you’re doing perfectly. Keep breathing just like that. In…out…”

It didn’t look like Sherlock even realized he was crying. “John…I was looking for Watson, John Watson.”

John nodded, his tongue feeling heavy, his lungs like they were starving for air. “I’m here, Sherlock, I’m right here. You made it back to the hotel.”

“An’ Mariana—”

“Right here.” She laced her fingers with Sherlock’s, squeezing his hand tightly. “I’m right here.”

“No,” he mumbled, refusing to make eye contact with either of them. “Moriarty. H-He said he’d kill them. I had to stop him. I had to, I had—” He cut himself off with a long, shaky breath.

“Professor Moriarty is dead,” John said plainly, “but you are not. We’re right here, me and Mariana. You made it back to our hotel room. It’s over, Sherlock, Moriarty is gone. You’re alright. We’re all here.”

It was several full minutes before anyone spoke again. John thought maybe Sherlock had finally dozed off, the stresses of the events finally wearing him down. But then the detective spoke. “Watson?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, mate?” John answered in a similar tone.

Sherlock took an unsteady breath. “You’re here?”

He nodded, pulling himself further under the covers, partially squeezing himself under Sherlock in order to fit. “Yeah. Right here.”

“Mariana?”

“Mm-hm.”

They all laid there together, tangled bodies on a twin-sized bed. After a few moments, Sherlock spoke up again. “Sorry…I-I don’t know what I…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I was…disoriented.”

“That’s okay,” said John, pulling in closer. Sherlock was almost a regular temperature again. Living. Breathing. Not dead. Not washed up on a riverbank or sunken to the bottom of a lake downstream.

“Am I supposed to offer to take the couch?” Sherlock asks him, sounding very much like the idea is as horrifying as sleeping on the streets. John rolls his eyes.

“Nah, mate, we’ll be fine.” They will be - no, really, they will be. Sherlock will moan about John’s snoring and John will doubtlessly kick a pair of outstretched, gangly legs out the way at least thrice, but they’ll catch something like shuteye, he’s sure of it. Or John will, anyway - Sherlock’s not likely to sleep much, despite John’s repeated recommendations toward it.

“And you’re sure you don’t want the couch?”

“Oi!”

“Just….checking,” Sherlock says dubiously. “In any case, I very likely won’t have much use for the bed.” John smirks to himself, pleased with his knowledge of his friend - Sherlock Holmes may be able to read anyone like a book, but there are probably very few who can read the man himself just as easily.

“Yeah, well, just don’t hog the blankets if you bother to get some rest,” says John, yawning and kicking off his boots, decidedly ignoring the heart motifs that cover the walls and furniture, grateful it doesn’t extend to the pillows. “I will shove you off the mattress.”

“I’d like to see you try,” says Sherlock absently, already lost in thoughts of the strange little Russian woman they were hired by, his eyes focused on some invisible spot in the ceiling. Fondly, John pats his shoulder before making for the loo - with any luck, he’ll get a few hours in before dawn.

It’s a surprise, therefore, when John wakes up in the hotel’s queen bed the next morning and finds Sherlock not just asleep, but asleep in his arms.

It’s cute, actually. Charming, even. A little- well, okay, a little panic-inducing, and not for ‘no homo!’ reasons so don’t even try it. Just- well- they’ve not- they’ve not…done this. They’ve done the hugging, even the cuddling, or something adjacent to it, them lying practically on top of each other on the couch when John was trying to prove a point and Sherlock stubbornly refused to be moved, there’s even been the odd kiss on the cheek - New Year’s Eve at The Volunteer comes to mind. There’s not many boundaries they haven’t crossed, to be frank about it.

But sleep? Sleep is something so precious to them both, or certainly precious to both their bodies, since Sherlock derides sleep as an unfortunate and bothersome necessity. So rarely gained and gained well by either of them, what with John’s nightmares and Sherlock’s abominable habits, and yet…christ but John feels well-rested. Not a nightmare in sight. And Sherlock?

Sherlock’s sleeping like a babe, all six feet and two inches of him. He’s tucked himself dangerously close to John’s armpit, at which point in the night John must’ve shifted his arm to accommodate and laid it loosely around the man’s shoulders, though it’s almost certainly going to be impossible to move without waking Sherlock up. John’s other arm faces far less plausible deniability: it’s stretched out and culminates in a hand settled quite proprietarily on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock’s upper limbs, and one of his gangling legs, are brought in tight, one hand fisted in John’s t-shirt like a child might hold a teddy bear, while an extended leg is thrown haphazardly over both of John’s.

They’re sleeping a bit like lovers, if John’s being completely, totally honest about the whole thing, and the notion is less earth-shattering than he’d expect. His pulse isn’t racing, his head isn’t pounding, he just - he feels at ease. Like this is how they should’ve been doing the whole flatmate thing all along, like there’s a rightness to their close proximity, like John’s heart might burst if he got any happier. Still, he ought to wake Sherlock now - the detective wouldn’t choose this kind of blatant, vulnerable exposure were he conscious. And yet…

It’s just- look, he looks so peaceful. Dark, intelligent eyes closed gently against the world, hair fluffy and messy and gleaming in the sun that streaks through the curtains (blackout curtains the website said, yeah right, who are they kidding), face utterly relaxed and letting out the tiniest kitten-like snore every few minutes. John can’t remember the last time Sherlock wasn’t either straining with thought or loose with fluidity but in constant aggressive motion. Here he is now, calm and sweet and unworried, and John could just…let it go on.

But they’ve work to do. Oh, damn it. Daring to brush a hair gingerly from Sherlock’s face, John whisper’s his bedfellow’s name.

“Sherlock,” he says again softly when there’s no response. “Sherlock, come on, it’s morning.”

“Shh,” Sherlock mumbles, and it’d be funny if John weren’t waking up more and more every moment, and suddenly facing a very serious problem.

“Sherlock, mate, I’ve got to take a piss like you wouldn’t believe,” John says in a bit of a panic.

“Go piss, then,” replies Sherlock in vague confusion, burying himself deeper into John’s warm body.

“Right, I would, except you’re kind of trapping me here.” Sherlock finally opens his eyes at that, squinting hard in John’s general direction. “Look, I’d leave my arm if I could but since I’m not exactly a bit of Ikea furniture- thank you.”

At last, Sherlock rolls away from the cocoon he’d made in John’s side, still staring groggily in complete bafflement, but John’s too desperate for a wee to worry about it much. By the time he renters the tiny hotel room, Sherlock is already up and pacing, throwing clothes and things vaguely in John’s direction and declaring they’ve got to set out at once.

They decidedly don’t talk about the sleeping thing. It’s for the best, probably - but John can’t help his twinge of longing for the surprising comfort afforded him this morning, resigned to the fact that it isn’t likely to be a repeat incident.

Ah well. It’ll pass.

-

-

-

A few days after the conclusion of the case (and the punch that little old lady could pack, you would not believe), they’re once again safe and sound at Baker Street, when John collects the mail and finds a nasal strip delivery addressed to him among the bills and adverts.

“Sherlock, I think these are yours,” John calls out, waving the small box at him to get his attention. It’s a Saturday, and Sherlock’s huddled up with his feet and arse perched on the sofa, watching the live footy results with intensity, so it’s a few moments before he notices. But once the strips catch his eye, Sherlock’s springing up in one fluid movement, hurrying over to snatch the box out of John’s hand.

“You know, I don’t think I knew you were a snorer,” John says, reading the package. “Granted, you don’t sleep enough for me to really notice but the few times you do bother to sleep I don’t recall you- Sherlock. What are you doing?”

“Testing the measurements,” Sherlock replies, bending nasal strip to nose and making thoughtful little ‘hmm’ sounds.

“Right. That’s my nose, though?”

“Yes,” says Sherlock, clearly and slowly, as though John’s being thick. John bats his hand away, irritated.

“Are those meant for me?” he asks. Sherlock beams, his work apparently complete.

“They’re a perfect fit!” proclaims Sherlock, pleased with himself. “These had quite excellent reviews but online shopping is such a gamble; fortunately, this one paid off. Where are you going? Your nasal strips-“

“Not even getting into it,” John calls over his shoulder, heading for the shower - he’s needing one, anyway, and it’ll prevent him from getting into a tiff with Sherlock over some misguided attempt at helping.

Thea nasal strips are conspicuously missing from view when John’s dressed and returned to the lounge, the live results over and Sherlock reading a book on the ‘unknown secrets of fungi’, or whatever the title boasts, so he considers the matter laid to rest.

When John retires for the evening, however, he finds the argument-inducing package sitting neat and unassuming on his nightstand, and nearly storms out to declare that he is not a snorer, but deflates and lets it rest.

He can just toss the stupid things and forget it ever happened, right? So John does- or, he starts to, anyway, swiping the package and making for the bin, except…

Well, a bit of research can’t help. He looks the brand up and-

“30 p?” he gasps aloud. It’s not a fortune, mind, but it’s a hell of a lot more than a package from Boots might cost, John’s guessing. He proceeds to read the website - everything from the reviews Sherlock mentioned to their so-called success rate, to the method applied to these particular nasal strips.

Well. What’s one night sleep with them on going to do?

“Fuck me,” John says aloud the following morning, bleary-eyed but quickly becoming alert and refreshed, his usual grogginess absent. Even his mouth doesn’t taste as sleep-tangy as it usually does.

Best sleep of his life, probably. Fuck’s sake.

-

-

-

“Sherlock?” John calls from his bedroom. “What’s this then?”

“Humidifier,” Sherlock calls back, not bothering to get up from the lounge floor he’s been supine on for the better part of two hours.

It’s been only two nights since he’s started on the nasal strips and John’s already being accosted with some other sleep tool. The humidifier, gently humming and letting out a barely-perceptible steam spray over his room, is certainly a less insulting gift than the previous, but it’s significantly more confusing.

“Right. Why’ve I got a humidifier again?”

“Your bedroom is too dry,” Sherlock explains, barely raising his voice enough to be heard over the distance between the lounge and John’s room. “Poor ventilation is the most likely culprit, but there could be any number of contributing environmental factors.”

“Yes, I understand the purpose of a humidifier, thanks very much,” John says tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m just- I’m just checking here, are you running some sort of experiment, or testing a theory out, or-“

“I’m improving your sleeping conditions!” Sherlock declares, insulted. John blinks in surprise.

“What for?” he asks. Sherlock says nothing. “Sherlock, what for?” Silence. “Sherlock, if this is some sort of experiment, I’m telling you right now-“

“For the last time, Watson, I generally conduct experimentation that follows the standard code of ethics set by my forebearers,” Sherlock insists, still refusing to get up from the floor. “As I said before, your room is dry, and your sleep will benefit. That’s all.”

“So…” John says, considering the small machine on his nightstand, “it’s a gift, then?”

Again, Sherlock does not respond, but John decides to let the whole thing go and appreciate the humidifier as a present and nothing more. He doubts it’ll have much of an effect on him, but it seems Sherlock’s in a giving mood, and it would be rude to refuse him.

And of course, as is to be expected, John sleeps for nearly nine hours uninterrupted - better, even, than that first night with the nasal strips. For God’s sake, is Sherlock the bloody doctor or is John?

-

-

-

The ‘sleep improvement’ gifts continue in that fashion over the next few days. Immediately following the humidifier is a heavy-duty portable air con unit that is placed atop a simple but sturdy stool John’s never seen before, filling the room with mildly cool air (it’s not set to blasting, since heat’s still just barely beginning to creep into London this time of year) that makes him never want to leave his bed. Sherlock pokes his head in, the morning after it’s been set up, nods approvingly, and goes back about his day.

John, who had been moving slow in an effort to lounge in the comfort of his new offerings, was naked save his pants at the time, and for that reason opted not to use the opportunity to do any more digging into why Sherlock is so invested in his room being comfortable. A theory is forming in John’s brain, anyway, and he’s willing to wait things out and see if he’s right.

The next gift, arriving three days after the last, is a huge duvet-looking thing, although it feels soft enough to use as its own blanket, forget sheets or any similar such nonsense. It comes with a couple of matching pillow cases, all in a subdued, vintage-wash type of red and off-white. John puts his hand to the blanket and sighs, watching as it sinks into the comfortable, fluffy fabric. Sherlock claps delightedly when he notices John testing the bedding out.

“Swindon Town!” he says in excitement. John, already half-asleep at just the prospect of tucking himself into this thing, blinks uncomprehending in Sherlock’s direction.

“What about them?”

“The colours, Watson,” Sherlock explains, gesturing to the pillow cases and duvet. “You stated six or seven months ago you missed the freedom of childhood bedrooms, when there were no qualms about action figures or sports iconography. I specifically chose something that would harken to that type of room design without embarrassing you, unless…unless, of course, I misunderstood…”

“What? No, that’s- Sherlock, this is lovely mate.” John puts a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, shaking away his own expression of surprise. “You didn’t misunderstand, I just wasn’t expecting- I mean, I was mostly on a tangent, but still, this- I’m just thrown off, because, well, I mean- you remembered that?”

Sherlock looks at John as though he’s being thick.

“Yes,” Sherlock says slowly, drawing the word out. “You said it. Of course I remember it.”

He doesn’t remember the dishes, or the laundry, or where he left his rosin half the time, and he actually likes using the rosin, since it means using his beloved violin. And yet, Sherlock remembers a stupid, half-drunken rant on John’s nostalgia for childhood bedrooms. John is hit with a wave of affection so fierce it nearly knocks him off his feet. Somehow, he stays steady - and decides his theory is that much stronger.

“Thank you,” John says after a while. Sherlock nods primly and, considering it for a moment, touches the duvet as well.

“Very nice,” says Sherlock softly, almost longingly. Before John can swallow his fear and invite Sherlock to try them out with him (innocently, mind, he’s not a complete pervert), Sherlock snaps into perfect posture, drawing himself to his full height.

“I’m glad you like them, Watson,” he says sincerely. “Now, I have a mouse in a wall in need of assistance.”

“Sherlock, we’ve talked about Graham in the walls-“

“You’ve talked about it.”

“-and if he chews through the wiring Mariana and I will kill you. Together. Joint effort.”

“I’d like to see you try!” Sherlock replies over his shoulder, already turned on his heel to, hopefully, retrieve his wayward mouse.

John sighs. The invitation will just have to wait, he supposes. He’s not sure why, but he feels he’ll just know when Sherlock’s ready to join him - and it’ll have something to do with these bloody perfect gifts.

Sure enough, the following morning after yet another elevated night’s sleep, the lounge has been taken over by what appears to be a brand new mattress.

“Alright, this is a bit far now,” John says in dismay, hands on his hips. Sherlock opens only one eye, observing John from his spot on the right side of the mattress, presumably testing it. “Sherlock, that thing must have cost a ton!”

“£200, actually.”

“This is what I’m talking about! 200- wait, seriously?” John stops his frantic disapproving hand-waving in midair. “That mattress only cost you 200 p?”

“Mattress topper,” Sherlock clarifies, rolling neatly over to the left side and settling in. “Hypoallergenic down alternative. Supposed to be very comfortable. Lie down with me, Watson.”

“Sorry?”

“Here,” Sherlock encourages him, patting the just vacated spot to his right. “Give it a try. Might be a bit too soft on your aging back-“

“Oi!”

“-but I have a feeling you’ll find it as agreeable as I do.” Shaking his head in some mad, rather familiar combination of resign and affection, John kneels on the floor and tests the firmness of the mattress topper with his hand, first.

“God, that’s…oh that’s quite nice actually…what is that? The sheets, I mean?”

“French linen, 100 thread count - it’ll only get softer with repeat washes.”

“They know what they’re doing over there, I suppose,” John mutters, flopping onto the mattress topper beside Sherlock. Sure enough, it feels wonderful. Soft, yes, but not without a certain firmness. He got used to the inflexibility of the cots the army provided, back when he was active, and never quite shook the need for something at least half-firm beneath him for a good night’s sleep. This, atop his already firm mattress, will do quite nicely.

“You accept, then?” Sherlock asks him. His voice is even, normal, but when John peeks over in the man’s direction, Sherlock is stock-still, eyes boring into the ceiling. John is not a cruel man - he feels no need to draw this out. But still, he wants to remember this moment: what Sherlock looked like before everything changed.

“Yeah, alright,” John says after he’s memorise Sherlock’s expression, ironed it into his brain. “Just do me a favour: if you’re coming to bed late, try to be quiet, yeah? No point in investing in all this if you’re just going to wake me up sneaking under the covers.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen comically, staring into John’s as though he’s just said something shocking and scandalous.

“Watson, I- or, that is-“ Sherlock flounders a moment longer before he simply gives up altogether, his rueful smile accompanying John’s satisfied one. “Oh, alright then.”

“If I’d realised all this was half for you, I wouldn’t have been nearly as grateful.”

“Not true!” Sherlock proclaims, standing from the mattress topper and stretching. “The nasal strips are all yours.”

“Very funny. Hey! Where are you going? Sherlock! You’re helping me put this thing on my bed, I’ve got a humidifier and an air con to navigate between now, and I’m going to need some help!

-

-

-

The fan is blowing pleasantly cool and surprisingly powerful air over them both, they’re snuggled under a laughably oversized but supremely comfortable blanket, while held from below by European linen sheets and a ridiculously plush mattress topper. Between the humidifier reducing the dryness in the air and the state-of-the-art nasal strip John’s got on, he’s breathing easier than he has in years. By all accounts, they’re the two most comfortable men in London, maybe the country.

And yet.

“Sherlock,” John whispers. There’s a distinctly emphatic sigh, the soft ‘fwump’ of the blanket being tossed around, and the bounce of the bed as John’s bedfellow shifts around on it. This has been happening steadily for the last hour and a half, ever since Sherlock trudged in wearing his blue cotton pyjama trousers and nothing else, a heavy-duty memory foam pillow tucked under one arm.

“Sherlock,” John tries again, a little louder this time but determinedly soothing in his tone, trying to placate. Sherlock grumbles something inaudible and just rolls about the mattress with more vigor, picking up his insanely heavy pillow and fluffing it aggressively before slamming his head back onto it.

“Sherlock-“

“Go to sleep, Watson.”

“How the hell am I meant to do that?” John asks good-naturedly, grinning at Sherlock in the dark. Sherlock, for his part, rumpled and sleepy-looking, appears about ready to leave the bed. “Hey, hey, I’m only joking, relax.”

“This arrangement clearly isn’t working despite my best efforts-“

“Sherlock, would you get over here?” John interrupts, arms wide open. Sherlock blinks at him.

“Over where?” he asks. John sighs and decides to demonstrate rather than explain, reaching out and gently pulling Sherlock to him. He tugs at a bony hip, the other hand pushing a little more forcefully on Sherlock’s back, until they’re finally arranged in a similar fashion to that night two weeks ago in the shitty hotel room. Sherlock’s legs move almost on instinct, one tangling with John’s and the other tucking up between them. He blinks at John in surprise.

“Better, d’you think?” John asks, sleepy and content. Sherlock is radiating…something. Not heat, not exactly, though the warmth of his body is pleasant contrast with the fan beside the bed. And though there’s certainly something shy and bashful spreading over Sherlock’s cheeks, that’s not quite what John feels either. It’s something unnameable - but comforting. From the way Sherlock’s foot strokes unthinking lines along John’s calves to the tight grip Sherlock has on his t-shirt, there’s a pleasant, tingling sensation that rubs John the right way all over.

“I suppose,” Sherlock concedes after a long while, still totally baffled by this turn of events but making no moves to change their positioning. In fact, he just noses, tentatively, at John’s throat and sighs, relaxing into the embrace.

“Good,” says John, pressing an absent kiss to the top of his detective’s head, stroking Sherlock’s back as he does, coaxing them both into sleep. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, Watson,” says Sherlock, kissing John back, though he seems less absent about it, lips lingering for a while on John’s cheek - not so much out of a desire to continue the kiss as a reluctance to break it.

“You’ll suffocate like that,” John says amicably, the distant part of his brain that’s still online thinking this is going to need to be a conversation in the morning, and the settled, cozy part of him thinking fuck morning, if this is the new bedtime routine let it last forever.

“Mmmf,” says Sherlock petulantly against John’s cheek.

“Sherlock,” John says a little more sternly. When that doesn’t do the trick, he cups his friend’s cheek and forcibly removes him from John’s face. “Good night.”

“But-“

John kisses Sherlock soundly on the mouth. There’s not heat to it, not really, just a golden kind of warmth, that same feeling of rightness John got when Sherlock folded into his arms, when he woke up in the hotel room and found Sherlock wrapped ‘round him. It’s just his lips on his best friend’s, firm and sweet and chaste, and when he pulls away, Sherlock lets out the most satisfied sound he’s made all night.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John murmurs. Sherlock nods in a daze, pressing his cheek against John’s chest and practically purring.

“Goodnight, Watson,” he says again, and this time John can hear the tiredness, the sleep that pulls at them both. “‘Til morning, then.”

When morning comes, they don’t talk about it- there’s no need. Sherlock’s smile could power entire seaboards, could beat out all the stars in the sky, and his good morning kiss knocks the breath right out of John’s lungs.

His eyes followed his every move, his lips were curved in a soft, sad smile. His head was tilted ever so slightly, as if he were lost in thought. As if admiring something beautiful and rare.

Something he loved.

It wasn’t just love.

If she didn't know better, she'd say it looked like longing.

She did know better. Didn’t she?

She thought about it, that night. 

Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she'd been blind. 

She should've seen it.

She should've seen it when John was shot. When he told her, not quite believing his own words, how Sherlock had reacted. When Sherlock went with him to the hospital, just to keep him company. Even though John insisted it wasn’t necessary. When he kept himself as close as possible to John for the following week or so. Kept searching for his hand.

A few weeks ago, John had let it slip that him and Sherlock had shared a bed, once. She didn't have time to react before he noticed what he'd said and clarified that no, “It was right after I was shot, you know, with Abe. We were both… Shaken.” She’d thought nothing of it. It had been horrible and traumatic, for both of them. Getting shot. Seeing your best friend get shot, and not knowing that he was wearing a vest. Of course they wouldn't wanna be alone. Why would she think anything of it?

But it wasn't just that. It was jealousy, when John seemed interested in someone else. It was devotion. Putting John's well-being above his own. It was casual touches, leaning on him for no reason, holding his hand on cases and when they went out. Cuddling. 

She only saw it once. A couple weeks ago. Also on movie night. Sherlock had sat his head on John's chest, draped an arm over him, and John didn't even bat an eye. Just put his own arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Like they had done that many times before.

She didn’t know why she needed to see Sherlock staring longingly at John to realise it. 

They were in love. Weren’t they?

Sherlock certainly was.

She didn’t want to mention it. They would’ve told her if they were together. She didn’t think they would keep that from her. No. They were still figuring things out. 

She didn't plan on mentioning it. But just the next day, Sherlock came down to 221a, looking for a hoodie he’d misplaced. Alone. She couldn't help it.

“Sherlock,” she called just before he left. “We're… You and me, we're good friends, right?”

He seemed taken aback.

“Of course. Did I do something-”

“No! No no no! It's just… You know you can… Tell me. Stuff. Right?”

“What kind of ‘stuff’?”

He seemed genuinely confused. So she just… Said it.

“I saw you yesterday. After the movie? You were… Looking at John.” 

She didn’t get to elaborate before his face changed from confusion to embarrassment.

She smiled.

“Does he know?”

“That I was looking?”

“That you’re…” 

She hesitated. 

Did he not know? Had he not realised?

“I- I don’t know how I didn’t notice until last night. But. You’re in love. You’re in love with him.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes,” she almost laughed, “You are! You’re so protective of him, almost territorial, you’re jealous when he seems interested in a pretty girl, you value his opinion above the rest, you trust him more than anyone, you talk about him when he’s not there, you always stand so close to him and hold his hand and- and cuddle. You’re practically oozing with love! And somehow I only got it when I saw you stare at him as if he was the only thing that mattered in the world.” 

“...not the only thing. I was simply... Admiring him.”

“While he was heating up food.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Alright. Admiring him. But… Everything else I said. Am I wrong?”

He thought about it. Arrived at a conclusion. Seemed concerned.

“Are those indicators of romantic attraction?”

“I mean. Kind of? Maybe not by themselves, necessarily, but together…” 

She tilted her head.

“But I don’t wish to kiss him. People who are in love want to kiss.”

“I- I mean, not always.” 

His face fell a little. 

“It’s true, though,” she continued, “usually it’s… It’s a very good indicator.”

“Right…”

“But, you know, it’s different for everyone! It might look a bit different for you.”

That didn’t seem to help. He seemed even more confused than before.

She tried to think of another way to figure it out.

“Oh! Ok, I know. Let’s… Put it like this. Imagine he’s dating someone, yeah?”

“A woman.”

“Sure. And one day he comes to you and tells you he’s gonna marry her. She’s… The One. For him. He wants to spend the rest of his life with her.”

Sherlock listened intently.

“You’d be at the wedding, of course. He’ll probably ask you to be his best man.”

“Would I have to give a speech?”

“It’s- Ok, no, that’s not the point, sorry. You’re a guest, at their wedding, and you’re watching them profess their love to each other, you know, say their vows, promise they’ll be there for each other through thick and thin, that they’ll be each other’s priority. Stuff like that. How would you feel?”

She waited for his answer. She saw his eyebrows draw together, his eyes seeming a bit more shiny than before. But she waited for him to speak.

“I… Should say I’m happy for him,” Sherlock said, voice full of uncertainty.

“But are you?”

He shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

“Then how do you feel?”

Silence for a few seconds.

“Betrayed. Left behind. Angry,” he said, and as the last word left his mouth he looked at her, and he seemed scared. “Not… Angry,” he corrected. “Frustrated.”

“Why?”

“Because I want-”

He stopped himself, and looked away. 

“Aw, Sherlock…” She put a hand on his shoulder. “You should tell him.”

He didn’t answer. The fear in his face morphed into something closer to dread.

“Sherlock?”

“Don’t tell him.”

“Of course I won’t.” He still wasn’t looking at her. “But you should.”

“No...”

“Honesty, Sherlock, I don’t- I think it’s worth a try. Honestly.”

He shook his head, looking rather distressed.

“Listen. He loves you. However it goes… He won’t take it badly. I promise you that.”

“No…” he muttered. “It’s too much.”

She wasn’t sure if he meant too much for him, or too much to ask of John. But whatever the case,

“Would you rather wait until it comes true? Until you’re at his wedding and you watch him promise to spend his life with someone else?”

He thought about it. And finally looked at her.

***

A few days later he was baking heart-shaped cookies. Mariana’s idea. He’d thought about it, and it made sense. If wanting to kiss wasn’t a prerequisite for being in love, if all those things she’d listed were indicators of romantic feelings, then she was right.

He asked her how he should tell him, and she suggested… This. Heart-shaped cookies, today, on the 14th. Valentine’s Day.

His hand shook as he decorated one of the cookies, tracing the edges with icing, to define the shape.

He’d been sure when he’d started. Now he was doubting himself.

He did know - he’d known for a long time that he loved John. But people always acted like when you’re in love, the object of your affection distracts you from other things. The world pales in comparison when they’re in the room. You only have eyes for them. Your logic is impaired.

What he felt for John… It wasn’t that.

Then again. Look at him, decorating heart-shaped cookies, planning to confess only a few days after he himself had had the revelation, emboldened mostly by the fear of someday being left behind by John. Maybe his logic was impaired. 

He tried to remember what it felt like with Victor. They dated. That was romantic. They kissed. It was… Nice. Victor liked it. Though now that he was thinking about it, before they ever kissed, he didn’t… Desire it. Did he? He didn’t remember. He must have, right? He must have, otherwise why had he been so sure you needed to wish to kiss someone for that relationship to be romantic? No, yes, he must have.

Would he kiss John, if he wanted? He didn’t know. It felt different, with Victor. But John was different than anyone he’d ever cared about. 

He chose one of the bigger cookies and started writing on it. Be… My…

Was he doing the right thing?

The lock turned.

Sherlock froze.

“Heyaa!” John called.

His heart felt heavy in his chest.

No. No, he shouldn’t have done this.

John’s keys clinked as he hung them up.

He’ll scare him away, and he wasn’t even sure what he was feeling. No.

He ran out of the kitchen and slammed the door behind him. He needed to get him to go away, to the shop, to buy… To buy…

“Eh. Glue!” 

He frowned to himself. Glue?? 

“Glue?” John questioned.

“Yes. Glue. I need you to go and buy glue.”

“But I just-”

“Now, please.”

He motioned for him to go, but he didn’t.

“We have glue,” John said and headed for the drawer where they usually kept it.

Sherlock blocked his way.

“It’s. Done. I need more. Go.”

“Yeah, let me see.”

He tried to get past him, but he didn’t let him. 

“I need more glue for a project-” No, what would he show him as proof afterwards? He’ll ask him what he used all the glue for, and they had plenty of glue, why the hell did he say glue?? 

John stopped trying to get past him.

“Ok, why do you want me to leave?”

“Uh.”

John looked at him with well-deserved suspicion.

He knew. Of course he knew, John wasn’t stupid, and most importantly, John knew him.

He crossed his arms whan he didn’t get an answer. “Well?”

He wasn’t gonna go. He knew something was wrong, so now he wasn’t gonna go. And the kitchen was full of those cookies, heart-shaped and decorated with smaller hearts and he’d written ‘ love u ’ on some of them, which wasn’t even grammatically correct but he had no space, and on the big one he’d written ‘ Be my Val- ’ well he didnt get to write ‘ Valentine ’ but it wasn’t that hard to deduce. He couldn’t let him see the kitchen. But he won’t go. And he will, he’ll see them. And he’ll know. He shouldn’t have done this. Not this way. Not this quickly. No, not at all. How had he thought for one moment that it would go well? That John would feel the same? How could he tell him “I’m in love with you but I don’t really wanna kiss you and I definitely don’t want more.” Too much if John didn’t like him romantically, too little if he did. But of course he didn’t. This was a stupid idea, stupid, stupid, and now he couldn’t take it back, there was no solution, no escape, and now John was asking him if he’s ok, and he wasn’t, and he didn’t even know what he was feeling, not for sure, he just knew he wanted John to stay, he wanted John to hold him, he wanted John, but it was too much, too much, and now he’ll know, and it’ll be awkward and he’ll take a step back and they won’t hold hands or cuddle anymore, and he’ll be lucky if he’ll still want to hug and the friendship will grow cold and he’ll drift away quicker than if he’d just done nothing, he shouldn’t have done this, he shouldn’t have, he’ll lose John, he’ll lose him.

He took a deep breath after what seemed like an eternity and to his horror, he felt two hot tears slide down his cheeks.

And in a moment of lucidity that could only come after the defeat, he realised that if only he’d stayed calm, he could’ve told John that he thought friends bake each other Valentine’s Day cookies too.

Too late now.

He closed his eyes, bent his head, and just let himself cry.

***

John was confused. He’d been out with Archie on one of their longer walks, stopped for a beer, and got home to find a panicked Sherlock asking for glue.

Well, not really. He did think it was odd that Sherlock had seemed surprised by his own words when he asked for that. His unwillingness to let him see the drawer was only a confirmation. That, and him stopping mid-sentence because he’d realised it wasn’t a good enough lie.

For whatever reason, Sherlock didn’t want him around. He thought he had a right to ask.  

“Ok, why do you want me to leave?”

“Uh.”

Sherlock stared at him. 

“Well?”

He didn’t answer. He glanced at the kitchen. Then back at him. 

He seemed… Frozen. Scared. 

“Sherlock?”

He’d thought maybe he just didn’t want him to see something embarrassing, or something that wasn’t done yet, or something he’d destroyed by accident (as if he’d bother to hide that from him). But now the fun ‘what are you up to’ type of suspicion was morphing into actual worry.

“Are you ok?”

He was breathing faster. Shallow breaths. Panicking.

Not ok.

“What’s wrong? Why did you want me to go?”

He stepped a little closer.

“Sherls?”

Sherlock took a big breath and blinked, and two tears rolled down his cheeks at the same time. Then, in a moment, all the panic turned into defeat. He hung his head and hugged his arms. And started crying.

John hurried to close the distance between them and took him by the shoulders.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Sherlock…”

He waited for Sherlock to unclench his arms so he could hug him, but he didn’t. So he just stayed close and stroked Sherlock’s shoulders with his thumbs.

“It’s ok,” he said, painfully aware that he had no idea what he was talking about. “It’s alright, mate. It’s gonna be ok.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Yes it will. Course it will. Whatever it is, we’ll… We’ll figure it out together, yeah?” 

But that just made him cry even more.

“Alright… Alright, let’s, uh…” He guided him to the couch. “...sit down.”

They did. John put a hand on Sherlock’s back and just held it there, feeling completely useless.

He couldn’t stand it. Not doing anything.

So he got up-

“I’ll go get you some water.”

-and headed for the kitchen. His hand was already on the doorknob when Sherlock almost shouted,

“Don’t!”

He looked back at him. He was gasping, quietly. His face was slick with tears.

“Please.”

John hesitated as he connected the dots.

He could find out. He just needed to open the door, and he’d know what was wrong.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the doorknob.

John released it.

He returned to the hallway and grabbed a small water bottle from his backpack.

He sat down next to Sherlock and pushed it into his hands.

“I don’t want water.”

“It’ll help you stop crying.”

Sherlock huffed, frustrated, took two sips, just for show, then put it on the table. He did try to get his breathing under control. John waited.

“I can’t…” he started after a minute. “I can’t persuade you to go for a bit and then- And then never speak of this again. Can I?”

John considered it. If he were sure it was just… Something personal, embarrassing but not harmful… He wouldn’t push. Clearly, Sherlock didn’t want him to know. But…

“I’d really rather you told me. If- If it’s really- I won’t make you tell me. But I’m asking you. Because. I’m worried. And I won’t just forget this and I’ll keep being worried because I don’t know what’s wrong, I don’t know what’s making you so scared and why you can’t talk about it because we talk , about… everything, and I don’t know what could be so bad that you can’t tell me and- I don't know if you're safe or-”

“I am! I am,” Sherlock interrupted. He pressed a palm to his forehead, and looked at him for a few seconds. “It’s nothin- It’s just-” He paused, gritted his teeth in annoyance, then took a breath, for courage. “I realised that I can’t actually tell if- If I’m in love with someone or-”

John felt the tension leave his body in an instant. He sighed so aggressively it was almost a groan, and buried his face in his hands.

“Oh my god… You. Are such. An idiot. I thought you were in danger!”

Sherlock had the audacity to chuckle.

“Don’t laugh, you bastard…” He straightened up and looked at him. “I thought something happened to you!”

“Sorry…” Sherlock said, still a bit amused. “I, uh.” His expression turned serious. “Um. I was-” Then, worried. Again. “I- I don’t even know what I’m feeling.”

Right. He’d been so relieved, he hadn’t even processed what Sherlock had said.

“You think you’re in love with someone.”

“I don’t know. I thought I did, but…” 

It all clicked at the same time. Valentine’s day, today. The kitchen, something in the kitchen. Did he plan to tell him? Did he change his mind? Yes. He wanted him gone to get rid of whatever he’d prepared. He’d changed his mind, he wasn’t sure. He was scared of John’s reaction.

Was it arrogant of him? To assume…

But what else- who else could it be? If it were anyone else, he’d have no trouble to tell him.

“Can I know who?”

He waited for a few seconds, but Sherlock didn’t answer.

He opened his mouth, tried to ask, ‘Is it me?’ but he couldn’t get the words out.

If he said no, John would feel like the biggest, most self-obsessed asshole.

If he said yes…

He wouldn’t know what to do. He couldn’t hurt him. He couldn’t. But… He couldn’t lie, either. 

He loved Sherlock, he loved him so much, and he was only half-kidding in that mailbag when he’d said they were soulmates. But he wasn’t in love with him. 

He didn’t want things to change. Everything was perfect just as it was.

Maybe they won’t. He did say he wasn’t sure.

“Ok… Um. Well, I dunno, do you- This- Whoever it is. Do you… Wanna… Kiss them?”

“Not really.”

Oh thank god.

“Then?”

“I was recently informed that kissing is not a prerequisite for being in love.”

“I mean… I guess? Yeah, I see how that could… Yeah.”

“Then how do I know? How do I make the difference? I thought I knew, but… I… Tell me. How do I know?”

“Um. Alright. Well, I mean, it’s differe-”

“Different for everyone, yes, I know. Tell me how it is for you. Please.”

“Ok...” 

He thought about Carrie, how it had felt in the beginning. He thought about his high school girlfriend, the first time he’d felt like that. He tried not to think about Mary. 

“Um. I do want to kiss if I uh… If I like them… That way. Um. I think about them a lot. I mean really… A Lot. Like- Almost everything reminds me of them. Uh. I get… Nervous? Towards the beginning, at least. And it’s… Exciting. Just to be next to them. Or. Touch them. It feels a bit… A bit like it burns. And, um. Sometimes my stomach twists. In- In a good way. It literally feels like it's-” he put his hand over his stomach, then turned it “-twisting. Or. Falling a little. So… Yeah.”

He looked at Sherlock, and almost laughed at the expression on his face.

“That is… A lot.”

“Yeah.” He smiled. He thought he knew the answer already, but he still asked, “Is that what you feel?”

“No,” Sherlock replied without missing a beat. “No, that's… No. The only thing that even comes close is that I do think about yo-” He stopped abruptly, then looked at him as if caught red-handed.

“It’s ok,” John said. “I figured.”

“Yes… I suppose there weren't many suspects.”

John didn’t add that he wouldn’t have reacted like that if it were anyone else.

“I... do think about you a lot more than other people, but not… An exaggerated amount.”

“Yeah, mate, I’m your best friend. We see each other every day. Of course I’m gonna be in your head a lot.” He tapped Sherlock’s forehead with one finger. “You’re in mine, too.”

Sherlock smiled, then took a big breath and leaned back on the couch, as if exhausted. He did still seem a bit… Melancholic. As if a big danger had been averted but there were still losses.

“What is it?”

“Hm?”

“Something’s still bothering you.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is! You’re… Sad.” 

Sherlock didn’t deny it. He shrugged.

“Why?”

“It’s...” He trailed off. “No, it’s nothing.”

John waited a bit to see if Sherlock would elaborate after all. He didn’t. So, he tried guessing.

“I, uh. You know, I’m not, like… I’m not judging you for not- For thinking- For not knowing exactly what you’re feeling. I mean, it’s-”

“It’s not that.” 

Alright… Getting somewhere.

“Then what is it?” He reached out and took his hand. “Why are you sad?”

Sherlock looked at him. The sadness turned into fondness as he studied his face. He opened his mouth, but the only sound that came out was a strangled “I”. He looked down, at their hands. He took a few shallow breaths. Then, in a forced whisper, as if fighting to get the words out:

“I wish we could be friends forever.”

Sherlock’s eyes welled up as quickly as if he’d pushed a button, and he turned his head away.

“Oh… Sherlock…” John pulled him closer, by the hand, then hugged him. Was that it? Seriously? “Of course we will. God.” He stroked his back a few times. “I’ll always be your friend. Always.” He pulled back to look at him. “Alright?”

Sherlock nodded, but the expression on his face remained the same.

“...you don’t believe me.”

His friend smiled for a moment.

“I don’t think you’re lying. But… One day you will move out. To have an actual family. And we will see each other often enough, at first. Then less. And less. Until one day I’ll become your old friend Sherlock. Whom you haven’t seen in two years. And I will still be, officially, your friend. I will still have that title. But… I won’t be, really. I’ll-” Sherlock’s voice broke for a second. “I’ll just be a thing of the past.”

John thought he could feel his heart break. His vision blurred, and before the tears had time to fall he pulled Sherlock back into a hug, this time leaning his weight on him, burying his face in his shirt, holding him as close as he could, as if just that could prevent them from ever growing apart.

“I don’t want that,” he managed to say, muffled and barely understandable. “Never.”

It wasn’t… Right.

It felt like… This. Baker street. Them, solving crimes. Living together and bickering and cuddling and annoying and impressing and… completing each other. This was it. 

He never really… Officially, consciously decided that he wanted this, forever. It wasn’t a secret he kept. But… Every time he did think about the future… It was him and Sherlock. It just… Made sense.

He turned his head so his voice could be heard better.

“I mean, uh. How do I know you won't get bored of me , eh? Thought about that?”

Sherlock sighed, and it only sounded a little annoyed.

“John. You are by far the best and closest friend I have ever had. And, I think it would be fair to say that includes my family.”

“Oh.”

“I know I might not make it obvious, a lot of the time. But I appreciate you immensely. I am… Very lucky to have met you.”

John let out a watery laugh.

“Shut up,” he whispered. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s… Good.”

He pulled back, rubbed the tears from his eyes, and smiled at his friend.

“Sherlock, I don’t wanna move.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 

“I didn’t mean this would happen in the near future.”

“No, I mean. I don’t… wanna… move. I kinda just… I like it now. I want…” He looked away, swallowed, embarrassed, and wondered how Sherlock had managed to say so many things today. “I want us to stick together.”

No answer for a few seconds. He looked back at Sherlock, who was staring at him with a mixture of cautious disbelief and hope.

“You’re… You’re saying this because I made you sad.”

Technically true. He probably wouldn’t have said it out loud if Sherlock didn’t bring it up. But…

He shook his head.

“I mean it. I- I’ve said it before. Not to you, but. I found what I was looking for. And it’s here.”

The disbelief slowly left Sherlock’s face.

“You’ll stay?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’d like that.”

And Sherlock finally, finally relaxed. Smiled, with all his face. Leaned back on the couch and tried to suppress laughter.

“Is this it?” John asked. “You... wanted something that’s usually a... Couple thing. That’s why you thought you were in love.”

“Yes. That was… What convinced me.”

“Convinced?” 

“Yes, well. Mariana noticed-”

“Oh my God!” John laughed in disbelief, then leaned his forehead in a hand. “No...”

“She… meant well.”

“Yeah, I- I mean I guess it worked out good.” And, to her credit, she was usually right about this stuff. “But, still!”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Alright, well. Go on. What did she notice?”

“I was looking at you. After our latest movie night. You were heating up the food and singing… Something. It was… A nice moment. I wanted to remember it.”

John smiled.

“Don’t you forget about me.”

“Yes.”

“Yeah. Well.” He leaned down on the couch, too. “I guess it could look… like that, from the outside.” He chuckled as he remembered something. “I did let it slip that we slept in the same bed that one time. After… Slaney. So.”

“Hm. Yes. We… Cuddled. I enjoyed that.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“We could- Do that again. Sometimes. If you want.”

“We can?”

“Yeah. I love a good cuddle.” He scooted a little closer to Sherlock and threw an arm around him. “I love you .”

“Yes.” Sherlock turned his head so it would lean on John’s. “I do too.”

They sat like that until every bit of stress and worry seeped out of John’s body.

John winced slightly. “No, ‘course not. I wouldn’t expect you to come her for fun. Those things working at all?” He gestured to the ear defenders that took the place of Sherlock’s usual set for this investigation. They were a shimmering silver-blue and had great black bat-like wings attached to the earmuffs.

“About as much as these.” Sherlock tugged irritatedly at the dark glasses shading his eyes. They were a shiny gold, with shutters crossing them like blinds. John couldn’t resist and tugged on the gold chain hanging from them.

“Stop that!” Sherlock pushed John’s hand away and then painstakingly pulled the opposing chain which opened the shutters back up again. He muttered something about the ridiculous nature of fashion.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said John. He moved closer to his best friend and ran a finger down the line of his neck that the voluminous leather cape he was wearing left bare aside from a series of intricately wrought golden pendants and chains. “I’d have to say that the agent who hired us has done the world of Metal a favor by gracing us all with this particular view of you.”

Sherlock blushed, though he did not move away from John’s caress, or his compliment. But he responded with, “Not the time, Watson,” with what he gamely tried to make a gruffly professional tone of voice.

John wasn’t having it, however. He slipped his hand beneath the massive specs on Sherlock’s face and cupped his cheek, saying, “Won’t Mariana be disappointed to miss out. Of all the nights to turn down working on a case due to some prior engagement—”

“Watson, watch out!”

Sherlock knocked John down onto the plush carpeting. Over their heads a velvet-clad body swept through the air, leaving a trail of glittering black feathers in its wake.

The crowd began chanting. They shouted out two letters, over and over again. “V-D! V-D!”

“Watson, why is it that the audience is crying out about sexually transmitted diseases?”

“Disease—? Oh, you berk, that’s for the band: Velvet Dread.”

On stage a glittering ball was dropping slowly from the ceiling. An array of purple lights focused on the giant mirrored globe and the entire venue began shimmering in lavender and violet. Hands rose in the audience holding mirrors and the whole of the arena turned into a scintillating field of light.

John shook his head, dazzled. “Stunning…”

The lights shifted once more. All went dark, except for a set of figures standing on the stage, now luminescent. The sound of a bagpipe’s drone began, followed by the whine of electric guitars.

“There’s the cue, Watson. Follow me.”

Sherlock shot off through the crowd, his cape flying out behind him, winged helm fluttering like a demon.

John came after, making apologies as he went. “Oof, sorry, mate. No harm meant. Oh, sorry, I’m sure that won’t bruise too much…”

They made it close to the stage as the percussionist and her array of crystal chimes rolled into place and the lead singer began the haunting call of a lost love amongst the moors. Sherlock paused momentarily as a pair of fiddlers took up the melody, but then he pushed on, John in his wake.

They came upon a pair of security staff that towered over even Sherlock. The one on the left straightened out the white glove he wore and the other adjusted the green carnation in his leather tuxedo’s lapel.

“Um, Sherlock. What exactly are we supposed to do here?”

Sherlock ignored John, and pulled out one of the thick chains hanging around his neck. A plain metal clip at its base was clamped onto a laminated backstage pass. The gargantua with the flower waved him on. Watson tried to follow but was held back by the behemoth wearing the gloves.

“Sherlock, um. Is there one of those with my name on it?”

“Oh, he’s with me.” 

The guard let John follow.

“Thanks for letting me tag along.”

“Of course, Watson. Wouldn’t want to do this without my dear Podcaster.”

“And what exactly is this? Does this have something to do with that very public threat on the lead singer of Velvet Dread’s life?”

“Very perceptive. We have been hired to protect her. We’re heading now to the green room. Each band’s occupation is carefully timed so that the festival can proceed without causing any hold ups for each of the groups. My sources tell me of a last minute change—”

“You mean Wiggins and his mates, the friendly ticket scalpers?”

“—Yes, precisely. Since the unlicensed reselling of concert tickets at an outrageous profit has been outlawed online, in person sales have skyrocketed. It’s quite the boon for those who have the right connections. But as I was saying, they have inside information about the lineup and let me know that the order of performances has been changed. Steel Inferno is now going to follow Velvet Dread.”

“That’s a very bad idea. I’m not the most up on symphonic metal, but even I know that the lead singers of those two bands have had a prank fest that’s turned into a blood feud. Literally.”

“It does tend to get the public’s attention when a celebrity has a screaming fit on the London Eye.”

“I’ll never understand how exactly that gal was able to fill the viewing capsule with fake blood. She must have had help from someone who worked there.”

“Possibly.”

“Wait, you know how she did it, don’t you? Don’t just shrug noncommittally. You know how one of the most notorious gags in the UK was perpetrated and you didn’t tell me? What is the point of dating the world’s only consulting detective if not to be brought in on this kind of thing?”

“Dating? Living together intimately for two years counts as dating in your world, does it? Well, I’m glad to learn that now, before…”

“Oh, you know what I mean. What should I say instead, shagging? Getting over? Snogging with intent? But wait, you said before. Before what?”

“That would be telling, Watson. Privileged information.”

“Privilege? I’m your bloody partner. In every sense of the word! How can you not tell me?”

“Shush, John. We’re almost there.”

“Where?!”

“Quiet,” Sherlock hissed as they reached the door to the green room.

John mouthed, “Make me!”

“Very well,” Sherlock breathed quietly. Then he pulled John into his arms, capturing John’s mouth with his—mid-grimace—calmly removing John’s finger from the corner of his own mouth as he’d made a rude face at his partner.

Sherlock’s hand found its way into the stiff crown of hair on John’s head as John melted in his arms, following the grain of the short fibers as they stuck up straight into the air with the help of far too much product, and pulled John’s foot up and around his thigh. Sherlock smiled into the kiss as he remembered John exhorting him to help find boots with a heel higher, higher, and “Even higher, mate!”  all the while denying that it was to make him “finally” taller than Sherlock himself.

How could he complain when the midnight blue platform shoes they finally settled on gave John a bounce to his step that made the short, solid, faithful man somehow even more magnetic to Sherlock’s eye and spirit?

“Ready now, John?”

“Anything you want, handsome… Wait! Ready for what?”

But Sherlock was already pushing open the door, behind which they found a balding man in a brown paisley shirt, holding an elegantly coiffed woman wearing a spun-sugar top hat and shredded morning coat at gun-point.

“Now, Watson!”

And John was leaping across a couch to tackle the aging gunman. Well, one could call it leaping, but it was a bit more like tripping. And by tackling, one would have to say it was a bit more like falling sideways. But the effect was the same, and John gripped the fellow by his too-long lapels as Sherlock pulled the gun out of his hand, holding it with a corner of his cape.

“What is going on here?” said a familiar voice. A leather-clad form made itself known where they were sitting in an inflatable neon-pink rocking chair. John and Sherlock stared.

"You're looking at me like you don't know who I am.”

Mariana’s hair was swept upwards, her head lined with tight fishtail braids that pulled her lovely locks into a ridge running the length of her crown and down her back. Highlighted in red hot hues, her hair picked up the color of the flaming contacts she wore and contrasted with the blood red spiked jacket she wore like a second skin.

“Mari!” cried John. “What are you doing here?”

“Me? I’m enjoying the backstage pass my high school sweetie gave me for old time’s sake. What are you doing on top of that man? And what are you two knuckleheads doing here?”

“Case,” said Sherlock.

“Erm, following him,” said John.

“Uh, ahem. If you’re done here I’d like to move on,” said the man underneath John’s bum.

“Not going anywhere. ”

Sherlock had recovered from the surprise of seeing Mariana, and was helping the be-hatted woman back to her tottering feet. 

“Thank you! You’re even better than I’ve heard.” She looked at where John sat on the ground. “And willing to go above and beyond for a client.”

“Client! But aren’t you the lead singer for Steel Inferno?”

The woman in the hat blushed. But then hearing the band start a song on the stage, and she panicked. 

“Sherlock, can you explain this? I’ve got to get out there with my girl.” 

At Sherlock’s nod, she ran up the steps and out the door marked “Stage.” Before the door closed, they could see her grab a microphone and join the lead singer of Velvet Dread. They saw dazzling smiles light on both the women’s faces before the door shut once more. 

John made himself more comfortable on the would-be-murderer’s back. 

“Happy to perform. Though, erm, Sherlock. What exactly did this bloke do?

“This vile fellow is Velvet Dread’s manager,” said Sherlock. “That feud you mentioned, John, between Velvet Dread and Steel Inferno has been upping the value of the band.”

I’ve heard that,” said Mariana. “They fill venues and album sales have even spiked. I never could have gotten in without Patty’s VIP pass.” She flashed her lanyard.  

“But it was all about to come to an end,” Sherlock continued “His client wanted to come clean with the public about the actual romantic nature of the two lead singers’ relationship.”

The manager struggled against John and said, “We had everything perfect. They just didn’t understand how much that would have cost me!” 

“I’d say you valued his percentage of the money they were bringing in for you a bit too much. Above human lives even.”

“Umph. So, what did he try to do?” asked John, taking the manager’s arm and maneuvering him into a hold that kept him still. 

“Nice move, John!” said Mariana.

John preened. “I haven’t forgotten everything yet, from my soldiering days.”   

Sherlock gave John a possessive glance that had John blushing a bit, then continued with his account. 

“What did he do? He took his management duties a step too far. He was going to trick the two lovers into meeting, murder them both and make it look like a terrible argument gone wrong. Since everyone thought they were enemies, not dearest of partners, they would assume it was a natural though tragic escalation of their public fight.” 

As he said this, Sherlock emptied the gun of its ammunition and placed them in an evidence bag. He then gave a satisfied nod and held out a hand gallantly to Mariana. 

She said, “And the manager would do well, since bands so often spike in popularity when the lead dies. What a sad world we live in.  But well done, detective.” She bowed over his hand and turned it over to kiss the palm, smiling as Sherlock was now the one who blushed.

The police soon joined them. After turning the manager over to their custody, hugs were exchanged all around. John got some help changing out of his platforms into some much more comfortable crocs which Sherlock had thought to bring. 

Together they watched the two supposed enemies light the stage on fire with the magnetic chemistry of their true feelings revealed for the first time. The chaos in the auditorium kicked up a thousand-fold as the lead singers kissed, and the light techs improvised a strobing whirlwind as the bands of Velvet Dread and Steel Inferno joined forces on stage.

“This alright now, mate?” John asked, giving Sherlock a concerned glance. Knowing the light, the sound, the crowd and everything could be a lot too much for the man.

“Are you okay, Sherls?” asked Mariana.

And in the midst of that maelstrom, the hands of Sherlock’s two best friends, flatmates and beloved lovers slipped around his slender waist. He was enveloped in warmth, tenderness and love, freely and fully given.

The detective pulled down the shutters on his glasses, pulled the bat ears more tightly over his ears, then tucked his hands into their back pockets. One to each, snug and secure. 

He gave a happy sigh.

“Absolutely blissful.” 

The music blared on. The crowd raved and the theatre shook. And Sherlock’s beloveds stayed close by his side.