It is extremely disturbing. He canât recall the last time he lost himself in here. In his own Mind Palace, no less. How did this happen? And where is the exit sign? The one reading: 221B Baker Street.
He finds many signs on his walk through the corridors but theyâre all wrong. They are pointing at the rooms, the nooks, the cabinets, the books, the floorboards; in short, everything. But not the exit to his physical home.
Sherlock is rarely frightened. Not anymore. Not since John moved into his flat. The feeling of fear courses through his body now, though. His claustrophobia â the mania he hasnât felt in years â has made a dramatic appearance, making his skin crawl uncomfortably.
âI need to find the exit,â he mutters to himself over and over, like a mantra.
Sherlock almost weeps with relief when Mind Palace John magically appears in the hallway outside the library.
âJohn,â he whispers reverently.
âFancy meeting you here,â John quips, mirth visible in all his features.
Sherlock wants to kiss him but thatâs not allowed. John is his friend, nothing else. He is as heterosexual as Sherlock is homosexual. Not a great match, that.
When Sherlock decides to ask John for the way out, John has vanished. The space he recently occupied still radiates a warm glow.
***
Sherlock wonders how long heâs been trapped. He canât even recall why he entered in the first place. Was it to search for something, or was it to escape his own living room? He never leaves - at least unnecessarily - to his Mind Palace if John is present, but perhaps he went out on a date again. If Sherlock isn't playing the violin or performing an experiment to stave off the tedium of John's absence, he tends to walk through this place for a while. The fact that he canât remember the reason for coming here, is unsettling.
Mycroft has of course taught him everything about the comings and goings, but Sherlock canât remember if he ever mentioned how to escape his own head if he got stuck. Most likely, it didnât occur to his brother that it was an option. Mycroft has always had better control of his emotions than Sherlock. He will obviously deny this to his dying day, but inside his mind he can afford to be gracious.
âAre you still here? Iâm waiting for you, you know. Thereâs tea and biscuits.â
John has returned, but he disappears faster than Sherlock can respond.
***
At the end of the corridor is a green sign, which Sherlock supposes is the one heâs been searching for, but when he walks toward it, the sign transforms into a painting.Â
The Reichenbach Falls.
It had been a gift from⌠a client? Or was it some politician? An insignificant detail at this point, obviously.Â
The painting gives him the shills; an expression John would use. It is ominous and if he concentrates, he can hear the sound of the grand waterfall.
âJohn? Where are you?â
Why hasnât he thought of calling out for the man earlier?
Sherlock contemplates that he might be drugged. Perhaps he isnât â
âYou called,â John says calmly, suddenly standing beside him.
âI did. Thank you for coming. I⌠I canâtâŚâ
Sherlock is slightly embarrassed to admit that heâs adrift in his own head.Â
âLost, are you?â
âYes,â Sherlock whispers.
To his horror, he feels a burning sensation in his eyes.
A warm hand slides into his, and the words âcome onâ are uttered.Â
Is John holding his hand?Â
Sherlock looks down and sees that they are indeed holding hands. However, this is Mind Palace John, a fictional version of his friend, not the real one.
âHere we are,â John says softly.
They stand before a door which opens a crack. Scents of tea, gingernuts, leather, books, and dust invade Sherlockâs nostrils. Thereâs also the unmistakable and unique smell that belongs to the man whoâs sitting in his chair sipping tea from his RAMC mug â John. The real John. His John.
***
âYouâre back,â John says with evident relief and warmth.
Sherlock blinks and nods; his voice seems to be out of order at the moment.
âCome sit. Thereâs tea and your favourite biscuits,â John coaxes.
Sherlock stands from the sofa and walks over to his chair.
âDid you finish cataloguing?â John asks.
The look on his face is different somehow. More open, fond, and⌠something else Sherlock is unable to deduce.
Tea first, then âÂ
âYou donât remember, do you?â
Johnâs voice is sad all of a sudden.
âWhat?â
âWhy you retreated to your Mind Palace,â John explains.
His voice is still âÂ
âOh!â
Images of John cupping his face, kissing him softly on the lips, telling Sherlock that he⌠loves him.
âOh,â he repeats.
âRight,â John sighs, âthat didnât go according to plan, I see.â
âJohn.â
His words elude him, and John seems unable to decipher what Sherlock is trying to convey.Â
Action, Holmes.
He steps closer to Johnâs chair, pries the mug out of his hands, and curls up in Johnâs lap, mirroring the army doctorâs ministrations from earlier.
âI love you too,â Sherlock whispers after glorious minutes of kissing.
âThank God! I thought Iâd scared you away,â John exclaims, so relieved it nearly breaks Sherlockâs heart.
âNever!â Sherlock says emphatically.
âWhat took you so long, then?â
âI couldnât find the correct sign, but then I called out for you. The other you, and he led me back.â
âClever guy that one.â
âMost definitely no idiot.â
âHigh praise, love.â
Sherlock hides his blushing face in the crook of Johnâs neck and wonders if he will ever get used to being called âloveâ.Â
He doesnât say it out loud, but apparently John knows him too well.
âI will repeat it until you believe it, but I will never stop,â John assures him, and that is the best answer Sherlock has ever got in his life.
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Sherlock fandom - ACD version today to celebrate the master's birthday.
Clueless
To him, everything is obvious. Where science and the Work is concerned at least. In other aspects, the great Sherlock Holmes can be completely ignorant. When it comes down to sentiment and matters of the heart, his mind is obscured by darkness. That is how he has described it to me in the privacy of our home.
âI will never comprehend how you put up with me, dear boy,â he murmurs against my neck, hiding his abashment and flushing face.
âMy dearest one,â I soothe him, âit is rather obvious, is it not?â
âNot at all, John.â
âBut you do believe me when I say I love you, do you not?â
âI never doubt you, my heart. Still, I canât help but question your motives.â
âMy motives?â
âThere is always something.â
âSo you keep saying, and yetâŚâ
I let the sentence hang between us for him to pick up whenever he is ready.
âAnd yet you are here every day when I wake up or come home from a nightly encounter with the Irregulars.â
âThis is true. What may you deduce from that, my darling?â
âThe signs are obvious enough, and I know I should trust my instincts.â
âAre you saying you cannot?â
âNot per se.â
âYou are being quite Delphic, Sherlock.â
âI am aware, John.â
âTea?â
âPlease.â
***
Some days later, I am using my shoelaces to tie up a rather volatile villain to keep him restrained until the Yardâs finest find it in themselves to come to our aid. It is not so much my own, but Sherlockâs aid I am referring to. The blasted criminal administered a blow to my belovedâs precious skull before I could tackle him to the floor. Had I not taken the Hippocratic oath, I am not sure I would have let the culprit live.
Because we are (almost) alone â the man on the floor is unconscious â I dare to use a less formal tone when I address my injured beau.
âDear boy, how is your head?â
âDreadful.â
âI am sorry I was unable to get to you fast enough, my dear.â
âShh, John. I was at fault, not you. I thought his moves would be obvious. A miscalculation on my part, Iâm afraid.â
âYou need to more careful, you realise,â I whisper in his ear, and plant a soft kiss to his temple. âIf I lose you, I donât know who I am anymore.â
Sherlock opens his mouth to say something saccharine - if the fond look in his eyes is any indication - but of course, the police choose that moment to burst through the door.
***
Thankfully, Sherlock shows no signs of having a concussion, so I let him sleep once I have divested him and arranged the blankets around him like he prefers. He is asleep before I reach the threshold, which speaks volumes about his fatigue.
In the morning, I wake to a blissful warmth. I can admit that my body is no longer as young and robust as I would like â it aches in most places â due to the tackle I performed the previous evening. Being enveloped in Sherlockâs tight embrace, helps immensely, though.
I try to turn in his arms, but his grip on me tightens, indicating I should stay as I am.
âNot yet, my heart. My head is fine, but your body needs more rest, and I find that I am quite amenable to stay in bed for a while longer.â
I hum contentedly lifting a hand to cover his.
Soft and warm lips are pressed to my nape and then Sherlock inhales.
âI have come to a conclusion,â he informs me.
âYou have?â
âIndeed. I have decided to throw all sense of logic overboard when it comes to you.â
âDear me! Should I be worried?â
He huffs exasperated but kisses me again all the same.
âLast night, you correctly ascertained that I was not concussed, which meant I was able to observe you closely when you werenât focusing on me.â
âI see. You did not think it impudent?â
âWhy on Earth would I think that? I observe you constantly!â
âVery well, then. Do continue.â
âI would if you could stop interrupting me repeatedly!â
âI am merely making conversation, Sherlock.â
âYou can count yourself lucky I adore you so much.â
âOh, I do, my precious love, I do.â
âJohn!â
âYes, my darling.â
I turn in his arms now; I miss seeing his beautiful face.
âTell me. Please,â I whisper and pecks his lips gently.
âIt was as clear as day, John. If I had been severely hurt by that villain, you would have served time for your actions. That is how much you love me, and I decided to stop questioning it. I realised in that moment, that everything canât always be properly explained. It justâŚâ
He stops speaking, as if lost for words, but I have an inkling of what he wants to convey.
âIt is what it is?â I suggest.
âPrecisely, my dearest John.
âQuite obvious, that,â I murmur, just to get in the last word â if he will let me.
In lieu of answering, he cups my cheek, gives me an intense look, and kisses me until we both forget anything but each other.
His mother told him the mirror in his room was magical and that its twin was out there somewhere. John didnât quite believe that.Â
At first glance, the mirror looked ordinary. It was oval with a thin black frame, and when he stood in front of it, he only saw himself and parts of the room behind him. But sometimes, when he looked at it from another angle, strange things could happen. Such as a vibrating surface, a change of colour, and the mirage of several worlds beyond it.Â
It happened so rarely though; therefore, John determined that the thing was just a mirror; that his imagination had got the better of him.
When he reached puberty, the incidents stopped completely. He was both relieved and devastated once he realised that. After all, he used a serious amount of time in front of the item to style his hair and to despair about new pimples.
***
The mirror in Marguerite Vernetâs boudoir was the most ordinary, yet fascinating object Sherlock knew.
âIt is just a mirror, brother mine,â Mycroft sighed when he found his little brother in front of it for the umpteenth time that week.
âItâs not! Sometimes the surface flutter. And it can change colour. If you look at it from an oblique angle.â
âNonsense!â
But his brother disapproval didnât stop Sherlock from seeking out the mirror when he visited his grand mère.
âSomewhere out there, its jumeau exists, mon trĂŠsor,â Marguerite whispered.
âA twin? Mycroft says itâs never twins,â Sherlock protested.
âOh, but Mycroft does not know everything.â
This wasnât exactly news to him, but it was rather jarring to hear it said out loud so matter-of-factly.
***
The week before John was shipped out to Afghanistan, something strange happened. He was visiting his parents for the last time in God knew how long. The mirror was still in place in his old room, looking harmless as it had done for years and years. But when he was about to climb into bed, something happened. A dark and unfamiliar voice reverberated through the room.
âGrand mère promised me that I should have it, and I intend to bring it back to London, Mycroft!â
âWhat the hell,â John muttered.
He placed himself in front of the mirror, but he could only see himself. The voice didnât speak again either. To Johnâs incredulity the baritone stirred something in him. A yearning, leaving his chest empty and aching.
âYou shouldâve gone easier on the whisky, Watson,â he berated himself.
âItâs the twin mirror and most likely itâs owner you heard,â his brain unhelpfully informed him.
The following days, nothing happened, which left John slightly nauseous and definitely disappointed.
It was strange to look at himself in the mirror wearing his uniform. His posture straightened on its own accord the second the last button was in place, and it felt almost solemn to put the beret on his head.
âAre you real?âÂ
John physically recoiled from the mirror when he heard the deep voice from days prior. He couldnât see anyone but himself, though.
Nonetheless, he asked, oh so tentatively: âWhoâs this?âÂ
He got no answer, and hours later John found himself under the Afghan sun.
***
âBe careful, soldier,â Sherlock mumbled when he realised that the man in the mirror couldnât see him.
It was clear that he was the owner of the twin mirror, but Sherlock had no idea where it was situated. The man was British, at least, but that didnât say much. Unfortunately, the background behind the soldier was rather blurry, so there was nothing for Sherlock to deduce. The only thing he knew for certain was the magnetic pull he felt. It all but radiated from the other man.
âWho are you, and what are you doing to me?â he whispered with an unfamiliar ache where his heart was.
No one had ever had that effect on him. It was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
Sadly, the soldier never asked Sherlock to be careful, and when the cocaine called, he forgot all about the mirror and its twin. Curiously enough, it was the thought of the other man that helped him through rehab three years later.
âSurely, I would have felt something if he â â
His mutterings were interrupted by a burning pain in his left shoulder, and Sherlock passed out.
***
âA bit different from my day,â John remarked to Mike as he surveyed the lab at Barts.
âTell me about it,â Mike sniggered.
âAh, Mike. Can I borrow your â â
Johnâs knees almost buckled, and his ears started to ring loudly when he heard that voice. The one from the mirror. How was that even possible?
âYou made it,â the man the voice belonged to murmured almost reverently.
Johnâs vision was not as affected as the rest of his body, and he gazed at the approaching man, who looked impossibly young. He was also devastatingly gorgeous; the voice fit him perfectly.
âI did. Barely.â
âYour shoulder?â deep baritone asked.
âWhat? How do you â â
âI felt it. Six weeks ago, yes?â
âYes,â John whispered.
Surely, he was dreaming. But then the warmth of the manâs presence engulfed him like the softest shock blanket.
***
âAre you real?â John asked him the next day when they met at Baker Street.
Sherlock took his hands in his and let his thumbs stroke Johnâs knuckles.
âDoes this feel real to you?â he asked softly.
âIt does, and still - â
John never got to finish that sentence, because Lestrade texted, and then they were running after a serial killer, over rooftops and down dark alleyways.
âNow, that felt real,â John panted when the black door to 221 closed behind them.
âHow about this?â Sherlock whispered and leaned in to cover Johnâs lips with his own.
âI think I need more data,â John grinned when Sherlock drew back, and pulled him back in to snog him properly.
For as long as I live, I will never forget the day Sherlock brought John home. He was so proud â Sherlock, I mean â to finally have found someone. A friend at least, though I suspected it wouldnât take long before theyâd only need one bedroom. John scoffed when I mentioned it, which I suppose was fair. It had only been ten minutes.
After John had shot that awful cabbie â yes, I do have my sources, thank you very much. Besides, Iâm neither deaf nor blind; like some⌠As I was saying: things changed between the boys after that night. They had clearly been to Sherlockâs favourite Chinese restaurant; I could smell the soy sauce and shrimp chips â the entire meal, come to that â when they returned. I was certain John had no clue that Sherlock never took anyone out to dinner. My conviction also included the fact that the good doctor hadnât the foggiest about the significance this mundane action was proof of. To anyone else, a dinner invitation was an everyday occurrence, but to SherlockâŚwell, it was more like a love declaration really.
I knew that Sherlockâs overbearing brother had tried to threaten and bribe John mere hours after their meeting at St Bartholomewâs. I was also aware that it would take more than a big cheque and poorly hidden innuendos to sway the likes of John Watson.Â
***
âJohn, dear, will you â â
âHeâs busy,â Sherlock interrupted.
âIâm not, Sherlock,â John protested and sighed exasperatedly.
That was a promising start, I thought.
âWhat can I help with?â John asked politely.
Sherlock had a lot to learn from John when it came to manners.
âOnly a light bulb, dear. But my hip wonât allow me to climb the ladder today.â
The impressive eyeroll Sherlock gave me did not go unnoticed, but it certainly went uncommented.
âNo problem, Mrs H. Lead the way,â John said; still polite.Â
âI have already estimated the time frame for this endeavour, Hudders,â Sherlock muttered darkly.
âDonât you worry, dear. I will hand your precious blogger back to you unscathed,â I teased, which made Johnâs ears turn dark pink alarmingly quick.
***
When John busied himself with changing the light bulb, I put the kettle on. I knew John never refused tea, no matter the hour. The shortbread I placed on a porcelain plate, made his eyes sparkle, and a genuine smile appeared.
âI havenât had those in ages,â he stated emphatically when I urged him to taste the biscuits.
He closed his eyes and sighed happily while he chewed. This smoothed out the lines on his face, and I could easily picture him as a boy and a teenager.
âSo, John, do you like it here? Sherlock isnât driving you around the bend with all his quirks and oddities?â
I tried to sound innocent, making conversation rather than interrogating the man.
His face lit up, and I knew he was telling the truth when he gushed about the low rent, the excellent location, and he also made sure to praise my baking while he was at it.Â
As I said: a polite man.
Before I got the chance to ask about the queries he hadnât answered, he continued.
âSherlockâŚGod, where to start? Heâs obviously brilliant and extraordinary. A bit mad. Extremely untidy. Heâs got no boundaries, you know. But that brain of hisâŚâ
He stared into space for a long while, and then he smiled broadly as if remembering a particularly fond moment.
âBut itâs more to him than that. I felt it the second he stood next to me in the lab at Barts. There was an invisible connection between us. Utterly curious. Electric, almost. I didnât even know his name yet, but I knew that my life was about to change. For the better. I was so sure of it.â
âAnd now?â I prompted when he fell silent again; my patience was wearing thin at that point.
âI was right. My life is getting better by the minute. Being allowed to live and share space with him isâŚmore than I could ever have hoped for. He gives me purpose. I feel valuable, needed; cherished even. Sherlock saved my life that day and I can never repay him. He scoffs at that, of course. Tells me I saved him as well, which I found utterly ridiculous. Until I learned aboutâŚhis previous troubles. The drugs.â
âI know, dear. So, you will stay, then? You will break his heart if â â
âFor as long as heâll have me.â
Forever, then, I thought to myself. There was no way Sherlock would throw John out. He was already head over heels.
John bid me goodbye, and I heard Sherlockâs deep voice complaining: âShe interrogated you. More subtle than Mycroft, but still. Insufferable busybody, is what she is.â
âShe just looks out for you, Sherlock.â
âDid youâŚâ
âNo, but I think sheâs clever enough to figure it out. At least if she dusts upstairs.â
âOh, she definitely will. Probably the next time we leave the flat. Mark my words.â
âAgreed. Now, how aboutâŚâ
The talking stopped, but the muffled sounds I heard before I closed my door, were convincing enough. My job was done, and I decided to celebrate with some Stilton, port, and Moulin Rouge.
âCanât you give me more than that?â I ask Ella.
âMore than what?â she enquires, clearly not at her most vigilant.
âMore than: âWhat happens to you?â Nothing happens to me, you know that. How about a prompt of sorts?â
âA prompt?â
Nope, Ella sure is distracted by something today. Normally, sheâs as sharp as a razor.
âForget it. Iâll think of something,â I sigh, and stand.
âNext week, then? Same time?â
âSure. Whatever,â I mumble.
***
Merely two hours later, I feel Iâve jinxed it. The ânothing ever happens to meâ gibberish, I mean.
Iâm currently in front of my laptop. My brand-new blog is on display; the cursor is blinking mockingly, impatiently, as if it says: âGo on, you numpty. Start writing, already. Things have finally happened to you!â
And my is that cursor right. But still I have no more idea what to write now, than the last times Iâve been sitting in front of a new blog entry. Itâs likely due to the fact that too many things have happened to me in quick succession. I feel it needs processing before I put words to paper, metaphorically speaking.
Iâve got my prompt, though. The one Ella couldnât (or wouldnât) give me.
A meeting. No. Two meetings, actually.Â
I know Iâm dawdling, but I canât seem to decide on a title, and I desperately need a title. Even in school, I couldnât write a damn thing before I had a title. Little has changed in that department it seems.
It needs to be something that foreshows what the blog post is about, so the word âmeetingâ should definitely be in the title; plural or singular.Â
I start typing. Trying it out.
A Meeting in the Park
A Surprising Meeting
Two Meetings at Different Locations
Meeting a Doctor and a Madman
A Strange Meeting
I read them over and decide on the last one. Itâs not that meeting Mike wasnât significant â it was after all that particular meeting that led me to Barts and Sherlock Holmes â but it was the meeting in the lab that changed my entire world.
How to describe him? Sherlock Holmes, that is. Mike Stamford hasnât changed much since our days at Barts. Heâs gained some weight, but heâs as jovial now as he was when we first met years ago. Some would even say, heâs easily forgotten; normal.
âNormalâ is not a word I would use to describe Sherlock Holmes. On the contrary.Â
Heâs most likely human, but his capabilities to observe â not to mention speak so rapidly you feel like youâre boarded a carousel out of control â are quite extraordinary and otherworldly. By just a perfunctory onceover, he knew almost everything about me.
âAfghanistan or Iraq?â was his first question.
For once, I was immensely relieved that I had my cane to lean on.Â
After Iâd told him it was Afghanistan, he rattled out my entire life story, as if he read it out of a book. He did get the gender of Harry wrong, though, but I didnât tell him that. Maybe Iâll surprise him with it some other time. Because I am meeting him again. The man that looked 12 when I first laid eyes on him. Tomorrow weâre off to look at flat together. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.
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(As an homage to @totallysilvergirl, I wrote this in first person. Guess which stories came up as I searched for examples just for the fun of it? The tales about Sherlock Holmes... Forgive my inside joke.)
Hiding in Plain Sight
They all think you are unassuming, nonthreatening, dull, harmless. You are none of these things, of course. But people are idiots who donât observe. They are unable to see behind the surface, the façade you have constructed around your true personality.Â
I saw you - the true you - after mere seconds in your presence. Of course, I am a genius, but still.
My genius notwithstanding, you do a brilliant job of hiding yourself in your horrendous jumpers, which I refer to as sheepâs clothing. It fit perfectly because you are a wolf; dangerous, certainly, but wolves are also known to be extremely loyal, intelligent, and playful.Â
I was lying earlier. It wasnât until I stood by the ambulance (a hideous shock blanket around my shoulders and deduced the killer for Lestrade) and I saw you standing some feet away looking like you were patiently waiting for me to join you, that I saw you for who you really are.
Our brief conversation before my meddling brother turned up, made my heart beat faster, and a certainty built in my mind: this man is it for me.Â
Your sass â the way you stood your ground â how you called me an idiot, as if it was a love declaration, made me want to kiss you senseless.
But again, it was you who took the lead, who surprised me when I least expected it. We had just walked away from Mycroft.
âDinner?â I asked.
âStarving!â you exclaimed.
When I led you down the road to my favourite Chinese place â it was void of people at that hour of the day â you stopped me, grabbed the lapels of my coat, pulled me closer, and kissed me.Â
âIâve wanted to do that ever since we chased that cab around the city,â you panted.
âNot that long ago,â I remarked.
âIt would be silly to wait any longer. When I knew you were amenable â yes, I saw the way you looked at me earlier, Iâm not a complete idiot â I decided it was time.â
You said this so matter-of-factly, as if you were telling me that we needed to buy more milk for our tea.
So, if you knew that I was more than a little eager to kiss you, I knew that you were my new addiction. Drug busts at 221B would no longer be necessary. I would gladly watch the man or woman trying to banish you from the flat for having an unhealthy influence on me. It certainly wouldnât be my brother. Before you kissed me, I had spotted the CCTV-camera move in our direction.
John Watson - former army surgeon and captain of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers - is contemplating how to get the job done. The job the bullet that robbed him of his dreams and career failed in.
Heâs at his desk, pen in hand. Around him, crumpled sheets of papers are strewn. Scrapped ideas.
His hand holding the pen is trembling. It doesnât stop no matter how hard he tries to focus on the blank sheet of paper thatâs lying on the surface underneath the insufferable extremity.Â
He tosses the pen across the small room and gets up to pour himself two fingers of whisky. Sometimes, the alcohol helps with the tremor.
***
Finally, the list is finished. Itâs rather pathetic when you cast one glance at it. Only four bullet points. He must choose one, though.
Gun (find an angle that wonât cause to much of a mess for those who has to clean up afterwards)
Bridge (check the tide table and which time thereâll be fewer people about)
Roof (ascertain if the door to Bartsâ roof is still easy to pick)
Starvation (tell Ella that you wonât need her services beforehand)
John reads it over a few times, then scraps the last point on the list. He doesnât know if heâs got the willpower to stop eating and drinking.Â
Having checked the Thamesâ tide table and which bridge is the best for his purpose, he finds itâs too much of a bother. Besides, he canât be certain that an imminent death awaits him in the murky river. Knowing his luck, heâll end up being rescued and even more invalided than he already is.
He knows the gun will do the trick, but heâs somehow reluctant to go with the obvious. It couldnât harm to check that door first. No one would survive jumping off that tall building, and it might be easier than using the gun. It wouldnât surprise him if his body betrayed him at the last moment; starting to shake the second he pulled the trigger, leaving him with a disfigured face instead of his brain mass scattered all around.
âJust one more day,â he mutters to himself. âIâll check the door tomorrow and if I can get out on the roof, Iâll come back in the evening when the place is more deserted.â
***
As of late, John hasnât paid much attention to the date. It doesnât matter to him if itâs winter, or summer, March, or October, Wednesday, or Friday. But today â his last day â he makes an effort to register such a thing. His mobile screen tells him itâs January 29, 2010. Nothing remarkable about that. He canât recall if he knows of anybody whoâs born on this date. Upon further consideration, he doesnât know a single soul born in January.
Since he has to encounter people other than pedestrians and shop employees, John takes a shower, shaves, and puts on his most decent checkered shirt. He glares daggers at his most hated object before he grabs the cane and limps out of his bedsit.
***
For a late January day, the weather is rather pleasant, so John decides to take a stroll through the park before making his way to Barts.
His heart sinks in his chest when someone calls his name, but he perks up when he recognises his former student friend, Mike Stamford. John has always liked him, and it feels like fate when the doctor discloses that he teaches at the hospital where they trained together, Johnâs destination.
âIf you donât have any plans for the day, I could show you around,â Mike proposes.
âIâd like that!â John exclaims a bit too enthusiastically.
Mike gives him an odd look, but doesnât remark any further, just gestures a hand in the direction of his workplace.
***
John isnât prepared for the nostalgia hitting him when he walks around at Mikeâs side.
âA bit different from our days, Iâd say,â John states when he looks around the modern lab.
âAgreed. The students arenât though. Theyâre just as insufferable as we were,â Mike sighs, then grins.
âSpeak for yourself,â John teases.
Mikeâs phone pings with a text.
âSorry, John, I have to go. Apparently, one of my students hasâŚâ
He shakes his head exasperatedly without finishing the sentence.
âYou can see yourself out, canât you?â
John nods and nods again, when Mike proposes they meet up for a pint the following week. He gives the well-meaning doctor a fake phone number, and they part ways.
Instead of taking the lift, John opens the door to the fire exit and the stairs. He doesnât want to encounter anyone on his way to the top of the building.
To his surprise, he finds the door to the roof ajar.
âFuck!â he mutters. âHow typical.â
He turns to descend when a deep voice interrupts his steps.
âDonât mind me. There is plenty of space up here. I wonât stand in your way.â
John freezes, unable to move. What the hell is going on?
Apparently, his legs move without his permission, and moments later he steps out on the roof. A tall man in a grand coat is leaning against the air vent, smoking a cigarette.
âThose will kill you, you know,â John remarks drily.
âMm. A slower death than what you have in mind, though.â
A blush forms so quickly on Johnâs face, it makes his knees wobble.
âEasy, soldier,â the man rumbles and steadies John with a hand on his elbow.
The touch does a strange thing to Johnâs heart. Itâs as if the chain thatâs held it in a vice grip for ages is breaking. He feels light; almost carefree.
âWho are you?â he asks in wonder.
âSherlock Holmes at your service, Doctor Watson.âÂ
No one knew yet. It was so recent and precious, and theyâd decided they wanted to keep it that way a little longer. It was a miracle Mrs Hudson hadnât sussed it out, or perhaps she wanted them to have this secret for themselves. In Sherlockâs opinion she was far too clever not to have realised what was going on upstairs, and John wouldnât put it past her to secretly delight in the fact that she had (almost) married ones too now.
Inside of 221B, they didnât stand a chance. Whenever they were in touching distance of the other, touching happened.Â
Outside, in public, well, that was another matter altogether. Particularly at crime scenes. The Yarders were used to Sherlock calling John over to have a look at something â preferably a corpse â and in those circumstances close proximity was necessary. Dark alleys and abandoned warehouses didnât exactly provide sufficient lighting, allowing them to keep their distance.
The scent of Sherlock sometimes overwhelmed John completely, and all he wanted was to lean his head on the other manâs shoulder and inhale deeply. Maybe place a kiss to his neck or run his fingers through those curls.
Sherlock in turn, became dizzy when John crouched down next to him; his calm presence paired with the intrigue of the grim scene before him, made the great detective want to snog his blogger senseless.
They did nothing of the sort, of course. The Work came first, and they were (mostly) professionals.Â
But the thrumming energy between them needed an outlet, so when they walked away from the scene, both searched for an acceptable space behind the lights from the police cars and, more often than not, the emergency lights from the ambulance(s).
âThe alcove,â John whispered, reaching for Sherlockâs hand.
âPerfect,â Sherlock praised and hurried after him.
Sherlock hunched down a little, widened his stance to make some sort of barrier between the street and the opening. In the dim light, his dark figure, dressed in his long coat, completely hid the alcove.
John was mindful of wrapping his arms around Sherlockâs waist inside the Belstaff; his bare hands would stand out against the dark fabric. To hide what they were doing, Sherlock needed to rest his arms and gloved hands on the wall, which intensified the experience tenfold. He hated that he couldnât touch John, but he knew it would be worth the wait.
They kissed frantically for some glorious minutes, but when John spoke, Sherlock had to end the rendezvous.
âGod, Sherlock, I canât wait to have your hands on me. Youâre gagging for it arenât you? I can feel it. Itâs so bloody sexy, youâve no idea.â
It was a herculean effort to part from Johnâs lips and warmth, but Sherlock thought he would come in his pants if they kept it up much longer. They had run all over London for days, with only a few hours to spare for sleep, and he was harder than heâd been in a long while.
âHome. Now!â he growled.
Johnâs wicked chuckle did nothing to ease the arousal that was building with alarming speed. Luckily, a taxi approached them seconds later. Sherlock was quite certain he would have a hard time walking properly; his tailored trousers were becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
Neither of them was sad to see the emergency lights disappear behind them, and John wondered if it might be time to reveal their secret soon, though he found it indecently exciting to rile Sherlock up. Not that he was unaffected himself, but he had the benefit of slightly wider trousers than his vain boyfriend.
