Return to Baker Street (S_Holmes and J H Watson)

From: S_Holmes
To: J_H_Watson
Subject:
Date: Fri, 20 Apr 2012 13:34:50 +0100

John,

Why do you keep emails on your laptop that are 3 years old? I'm trying to find specific data you took for the butchered vicar of St Mary's and all I can find are sop stories to Molly and Mycoft when you thought I'd snuffed it.

I'm bored. There's nothing to eat. I'm going to take a walk to the clinic. I take it Sarah isn't working today, you've not had a shave this morning. I've not had to clean the sink after you. No need for me to prepare forced conversations in my head when she asks if we're spending the evening together or if you'll be seeing other people. She does ask, John. I think you should stop making the effort, she's assuming the wrong idea.

If anybody else asks then we are spending the evening together. Need your opinion on the owner of a betting shop in Camden and his teenage mistress who looks uncannily like his missing wife. We will eat and then I will assist you in deleting the useless emails you've been hoarding since I've been away.

You need to update your blog. Mrs Hudson is worried my return has caused you some sort of stunted emotional reaction. She won't take my word that you're fine.

See you in 10.

SH.

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Sherlock snapped John's laptop shut and breathed in the chilly air. The sun glistened through the cracks in the curtain and he was still wrapped up in sheets (John's sheets, they were somehow still warm and smelled like spring mornings) and was still aching from last night's chase through Covent Garden. He'd done something to his ankle, twisted it, landed on it in a funny way and the cold was nipping his toes and making them curl and dance. He hadn't told John he'd hurt himself, or John would have fussed and fussed and he wouldn't have seen the light of day for at least a month. He was protective, was John, ever since he had returned to Baker Street. John never let him out of his sight. And Sherlock was...well, content. Peaceful. For a change. Although he wondered how long this would last. When had Sherlock ever been happy in the past?

John's phone startled him as it vibrated staccato on his desk. He really should turn it off in work, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. The barrage of emails and texts he received daily were his reminder that, yes, miracles do happen. Part of his brain - way in the back, past the part that logged his ex's names (futilely, his conscience might add) - wished for more miracles. Since Sherlock's return he'd pretended like nothing was amiss; acted like his heart wasn't welding itself not quite so spectacularly back together (it would only take one rip - one infinitely small rip and he just doesn't know). John should have known if anyone was to pick up on this, it would be Mrs Hudson.

With a deep exhalation - a weary salute to the end of his working day (well, he was skipping off slightly early but sarah usually let it slide) - he leant back in his chair, grabbing for his phone as he went. He did suppose it was time to visit Mrs Hudson for some tea and a chat. She deserved that - all the things she'd done those past few years - he knew she would never judge him, not after the things he'd done and the things he'd been through.

Food sounds good. Sarah was in today. Take from that what you will. I look forward to your attempt at forced conversation, almost makes up for you rooting through my emails. I'm on my way back now. -JW

John rose with renewed vigour in his step as he grabbed his coat and exited the clinic. A case.

Sherlock tossed his phone up in the air, letting it somersault onto the sofa as he practiced trying to hide his subtle limp, hobbling up the stairs to John's bedroom so he could dump his sheet back on top of his bed. John's bedroom was clinical straight lines and even smelled like wood polish.

Sherlock has perfected the military precision needed to re-make John's bed without the good doctor knowing what he'd been up to. Because every morning John had left for work, Sherlock had crept into John's bedroom, curled himself around John's soft sheets and buried his face into his pillows. His fingers curling around the edges of the blankets. His hands rummaging through John's bedside table. Searching for the story of John Watson. The story of the three years Sherlock had missed and the life Sherlock had been absent from. The heart and soul of John and the times he'd tried to move on and failed.

This morning hadn't been any different. He'd been tempted to wake before John. To creep up to that bedroom door and wait and wait and wait until he heard John's yawn, the shuffle beneath the bed clothes and heavy feet against the cool wood floor. The temptation to glance through the keyhole and watch. Just because he couldn't quite believe the hard times were over. That he had John all to himself again. Whether John was aware of this fact or not.

Sherlock let the sheet slip from his stomach and curl around his feet into a puddle of cotton. He stood naked in John's room. Trying to decide whether to wait for John here and risk losing his secret comfort. Secrets. He liked secrets.

John took his time getting back to Baker Street. He savoured the lightness in his stomach, the slight dizziness in his head from the thought that he was not going back to empty walls. He was going home. He would never take it for granted, this sense of companionship, of being an integral part to someones thoughts and plans. It was no longer meal for one, single chair, lost conversations and wakeful nights. It was life, buzzing, bloody and beating life. A life, his mind added, that would be incomplete (no, impossible) without Sherlock. He felt the thrill the realisation brought as it tingling up his spine. Shivering but not an inch cold, he picked up his pace, passing Dorset Square and forwards to his destination.

Yes, he admits to whoever up there that might give a sodding damn that he was smiling quite like a loon. A few faces turned and looked quickly away as he rounded onto Baker. A quick glance across the road has John's attention locked onto that door and his feet stop. Not out of choice but from a deep seated survival instinct that has been born and bred out of war and preservation. He can't quite tell if his heart has stopped or is beating too fast to note. His earlier epiphany has lost some of its momentary splendour and turned into something akin to doubt.

Lost in his anxiety, he soon found himself in front of 221, key in hand - automatic, he's done it day in day out.

Get a grip, you daft bugger. You stormed fucking Afghanistan. You faced death and slowed it in it's path. You can bloody well storm this front door and face what's beyond it.

The truth was, he didn't care about admitting it. He was a proud man, but he wouldn't let this stop his character; the fibre of his being. The truth, in all it's stomach churning glory was that he feared his friend's reaction. He trusted Sherlock with his life and after (over and over), he knew his fears were silly, but he couldn't help feeling them. More to the point - how to broach such a subject to a genius such as Sherlock? To be blunt or just let it naturally seep out into being?

He climbed the stairs with a heavy and giddy heart (you may question whether such a thing possible but John assures us that it certainly bloody well is, much to his chargrin).

"Sherlock?" A shout, a friendly welcome quite suited to a flatmate; steady footing, familiar territory.

He entered the living room, nothing amiss. Until a creak, expanding across the floorboards overhead, another, then silence. Almost like someone made a wrong step.

"Sherlock, is that you?" He slowly placed his keys on the side table, alert to any noise and eyes on the door up to his room. A bit of actual concern, now. Until he heard the familiar rise and fall of his friend's footsteps down the stairs. Relief, followed almost as quickly by confusion. What, exactly, had he been doing in John's room?

Sherlock gently eased the door of John's bedroom shut, the soft click echoing in the cramped dark hallway as he listened for the metal key in the front door lock. That familiar twist and click. That familiar creak and John's footsteps in the hallway. His soft breath evaporating into the air, his voice tender and firm and curious and wanting and needing. His presence was home to Sherlock. Nothing was Baker Street without John.

Sherlock was close. Close to being caught. Closer to having to explain to John why he was wearing his pyjamas and why he had been hiding in his bedroom. Why he was creeping across the floorboards and why he couldn't stop limping without clinging to the staircase rails and walls. All the things he would have to explain. All the aches inside his chest. All the twists inside his stomach. And why he smelled of John.

He breathed in. Held his breath. Clung to the wallpaper with clenched fingernails and ghosted the floor on the balls of his feet.

John before him.

Waiting at the bottom.

Looking back up at him beneath a dusting of blonde feathered hair and sunshine eyelashes. His lips pale pink and his eyes deep blue. Sherlock silently noted the dilution in his pupils. The corners of his eyes drawn wide and the corners of his mouth hitched north. Sherlock watched as John took in the silhouette of his best friend, shuffling down the stairs towards him. Wondered what the first words out of John's mouth would be. Made a subconscious bet with himself.

"They're soft and clean." Sherlock answered John before John even had the chance to form the words dancing on the tip of his tongue.

"Well, they're creased now."

And just like that, without a second thought, he reaches forward and slides his hand over invisible creases, over Sherlock's heart. The brush continues slower than should be reasonable until suddenly he's burnt and he shudders near enough unnoticeably, but perhaps noticeably enough. His hand jumps once on the spot on Sherlock's pyjamas (his, he corrects, still waiting to process that one) before abruptly pulling away and finding safe haven in the pocket of his jeans. But damn, where were his survival instincts now?

He's looking at some indefinite spot behind Sherlock, a few steps up. The pattern of the carpet merges and swirls. He knows he's over processing what just happened but so soon after that enlightening walk between work and here, it seems different - as if he's taken that first step. He's not sure whether to play it off, laugh and buff his knuckles against his friend's shoulder or to continue in this silence and wait to see what words float into the stuffy air. The silence continues on, almost to a point where the oxygen is palpable and the dust motes encroach and suffocate in their abundance. A quick glance up - a soldier, John, a fucking soldier - and he meets Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock was sure. So sure. One hundred and fifty percent sure John had felt his heart. That thrumming in his heart. That piece of machinery with its cogs and its mechanisms and its beating and its moving and its combusting and its bursting and its seeping through skin and the thin cloth covering Sherlock's body. He radiates heat and sweat and urges and threading his fingers together by his sides and he's twitching. He's actually fucking twitching.

Those fingers. Sherlock felt John's pulse through his fingers. Drum beats. Almost as loud as his own. He felt it. He felt it. He knows. John knows. He must know - he must know - he must know. 

Sherlock's eyes flicker from John's lips to his flushed cheeks and those dark blue eyes. He notes the tingle just slightly above his left breast, where John had branded him in silence. The creases in his forehead. The dull ache in the delicate bones of his foot. 
His balance almost gives way as his concentration slips momentarily and John unconsciously places a hand beneath Sherlock's elbow to stable him, a flicker of concern in those tired doctor's eyes. Sherlock leans forward against John's small but adequately well-built frame. His mouth inches from John's forehead and he's so, so tempted to lower his body and curve his limbs around his best friend.

"I'm fine, I'm fine...just this damn foot. I must have bruised it." Sherlock breathes a small whisper, caught at the back of his throat as John's fingers ghost along Sherlock's arm and creep beneath the cuff of John's pyjama shirt. His curls stroke John's long lashes and he watches as his best friend spirals a thumb over the back of his wrist...

Still. Sherlock wills his beating heart still. 

Because John is exposing Sherlock for all his worth. Disproving all of Scotland Yard's theories in one swift move. 

Sherlock closes his eyes. He can still disguise himself. 

John notices the defences going down almost as quickly as he realises where his hand has migrated to. How, with one fleeting movement of his head he could rub his cheek along that jaw. There's a dusting of unshaven hair there, and John wills his urges away. He's so close - so very close to changing the course of what they have there. There in the four walls of 221B.

John's thumb continues its subconscious caress as his mind catches up. Left, then right. Right then left. Over and over, steady and strong. Strong. John thought he was, but glancing up as Sherlock closes those eyes, strong he does not feel. The hand is removed, placed down by his side, almost still - he'll never admit that it's shaking more on the inside that out.

He thinks it cruel that he's here - almost aligned - with this man. This great, shining, broken, imperfect man. He's there with him and he can't - thought he'd lost him, gone; and now he can't show what it's cost him - what it's granted him.

Their faces remain almost touching, the height difference making John feeling cornered. He laughs internally. He's not scared, not scared of Sherlock; never. He feels his friend's breath whisper across the sensitive skin by his temple and he shudders this time, quite considerably. A mental shake. That tugging below his chest tightens as he realises he's running from this. running from something he wants. Suddenly he says:

"I've got tickets."

John risks a glance back up to Sherlock. The eyes remain closed but he notices the beginnings of a sigh.

"Tickets for what, John? And for whom?" John detects the slight irritation in the voice. The almost unnoticeable return to purposefully picked monotone that Sherlock mainly reserved for idiots and Anderson. John hears it and chills.

"For us. Opera, tomorrow night. Something . . . Italian sounding? Not really my thing, but Ted from the clinic couldn't make it. Said I could do with some culture, cheeky sod. Told me to take a . . . take a friend." Right, so we're back to me babbling and Sherlock either not listening or not hearing, thought John. But it was normal. He would kill for normal right about now.

An exhale of breath and those eyes are looking at him. Shining with something kept back, matching the almost forced quirk of his mouth.

"Sounds amiable. I have no plans. Not so insufferable if I get to be witness for your first foray into the operatic arts. "

John sighs in almost-relief.

"So the case tonight - betting shop and something to do with a mistress? Food still on? If we make it Thai, it's my treat. I'm killing for Thai right about now."

John could argue that this wasn't some attempt at a peace offering - there had been no verbal war or wake of carnage, but that look shining in Sherlock's eyes had made him feel nothing but guilty.

Somewhere between mid-afternoon and early sunset, Sherlock slips into the bathroom and peels off John's pyjamas. John's scent of clean hair and shea butter and bamboo soap has now been overtaken by the faint smell of chemicals and cigarettes (sometimes he finds the opportunity for a sneaky one in the bathroom while John finds himself distracted by the newspapers and fuck, did he need one now) and Sherlock needed to feel something, anything other than John's fingers against his skin, to check that he was still within the four walls of sanity. 

He finds his 'secret stash', in an old cigarette tin case that his grandfather once gave to him, hidden behind the laundry basket. He presses his bare skeleton against the tiles of the bathroom wall as he lights a match against the doorframe and takes a drag of his cigarette. Drawn-out, deep satisfaction as he exhales, head thrown back against the wall behind him and his long legs double beneath him as his body slides down along the wall with a squeak, coming to rest as he crouches to inspect the ash that had tumbled onto the floor before him. He subconsciously listens to John tapping away at his laptop, hoping that finally he was updating his blog so Mrs Hudson would get off Sherlock's back about her concerns of John's mental health.

John was fine. Sherlock knew he was fine. Same old John. Nothing changed. Except now he shared a flat with someone he thought was his best friend but who was now not only a consulting detective (the only one in the world) but also a Peeping Tom (at least there were hundreds and thousands more like him in the world). 
Sherlock didn't consciously think about peeping on John. It was like he'd already shut that part of his brain down. Like a dull buzzing inside his head distracting him from that fact that he was spying on his best friend. Naked most of the time. In his bed. Doing normal things like sleeping. And occasionally wanking. But Sherlock found it fascinating. All of it. He'd spent so long away from John. From this creature who knew no bounds of the distinction between loyalty and borderline  insanity - putting himself in the firing line time and time again to save Sherlock's arse. 

Sherlock pretended he didn't care. But his heart wretched whenever he thought of the countless times he could have been lying on a morgue slab if it hadn't been for John pulling him back from the brink every single time. 

The mistress and the betting shop had resulted in another dead end. There had been quite a few of those, lately. Another dead end and a frustrated friend. John had bought in Thai, and he ate his down quite quickly and considerably undignified; a bean sprout hung between his lips as the chopsticks lost their grip. He blamed his lack of hand-eye co-ordination due to the fact he was observing Sherlock. Seemed he did quite a bit of that, too. Sherlock had barely touched his tea, sat as he was, slouched down in the chair, knees bent and splayed, arms crossed and rigid against his chest, feet tapping and head angled to the side. His brow creased and his lips pursed, and John sighed.

"You know there'll be another lead. If not from Scotland Yard, from you. You won't let there be a dead end, not next time." Confidence, not in his words, but in his voice, for his friend. John knew there was little ground to be gained on the case, no evidence missing or wrongly interpreted. They'd been over everything again and again and triple checked to be sure. Sherlock did not move, did not signal that he heard his friend speak. Not until John bit the bullet, leaned forward in his chair and rested his hand on Sherlock's knee, a squeeze to the bone and sinew beneath his palm. Sherlock moved, then. His head turned abruptly to glare into the offensive, towards the intruder of his thoughts. His eyes softened, his features relaxed when his realised who was there, who was finally touching him again. Again. God, it had felt like an eternity. His mouth twitched into a half smile, a placating look that did nothing to fool his blogger.

"You and I know both know you're frustrated, Sherlock. Mrs Hudson can sense it downstairs, for crying out loud. Why don't we just - "

Christ, but is he frustrated. Frustrated to the point of chaos. Frustrated so much that his nerve endings boil and stab and bite. Frustrated so thoroughly that his brow perspires when it's chill and he shivers when it's so humid out he can hardly walk. But he's not frustrated about the case. John. John needs to be careful. Careful how he acts, how he talks, how he offers, how he smiles, how he touches.

" - relax a while, enjoy this food - damn, Sherlock - this was a treat, you're meant to at least act gracious and eat a bit. And there's the opera tomorrow night. Something to look forward to, eh?"

Look forward to? Look forward to three hours cocooned in small quarters of darkness? Look forward to John leaning in and whispering in his ear about plot and lines and characters. He feels a few things at once: jubilated - they have a private box and terrified - of how this privacy with John makes him feel.

John plunders on, squeezes his knee once more before falling back in his chair. He's picking his bamboo shoots with his chopsticks for want of something to do, his head is bent down slightly, obscured from Sherlocks view. John slowly shakes his head, his cheeks rising, indicating the ghost of a smile.

"Don't ever change, Sherlock."

Sherlock closed his eyes for just a moment, but when he opened them again, the room was in complete darkness. The crackling of the fire fizzled down to tiny red sparks beneath the black coal. He wondered how long it had taken John to get bored of him and disappear to bed. 

His ears pricked for the sound of heavy footsteps in the bedroom above the living room, but he got no such joy. He'd been lost in the corridors of his subconscious, trying to understand, trying to lock away particular emotions, store specific feelings and destroy the needless and the vulnerable tics that had threatened to give himself away to John. 

He had to take control of himself. He had to. Why did it suddenly feel like an impossible chore to ignore any kind of twinge he felt for John inside his chest, inside his stomach, beneath his skin? He had done it for so long. Coped perfectly. Until he'd started spying on John. Until he'd seen the side of John that John only reserved for John. He'd seen the true man. The habits and the faults and the endearing little things. 

Sherlock despised himself. Despised the betrayal of his body.

'Sherlock, it's four in the morning. Are you planning to sleep at all tonight? I'd hate to have to cancel the opera because you were too bloody knackered to go.' 

Sherlock cocked his head towards the door of the sitting room and found John stood inside the doorway. His hair dishevelled every each way as he rubbed his eyes with one hand, his left gripping hold of an empty glass. White boxer shorts and an old gym top. He yawned loudly and continued to watch Sherlock, who proceeded to curl himself into a ball on his chair, turning his back on John and huffing loudly to himself. 

He heard the heavy shuffle of feet upon the carpet and squeezed his eyes tight shut as he felt gentle fingers squeeze the ball of his left shoulder. His knees cracked as he leaned down beside Sherlock, crouching and leaning against Sherlock's legs as they wrapped around one another. Feigning irritation. As he usually did whenever John came 'too close'.

Too close. Too close was not enough. Never enough.

His mouth felt suddenly dry. He struggled to swallow, his tongue like sandpaper. 

'You can't sleep on that chair all night. Your back won't forgive you in the morning. If you don't want to go to bed, at least stretch out on the couch.' 

John's lips tickled the curls around Sherlock's ear. Sherlock's teeth grazed his full bottom lip as he forced the shudder down beneath his skin. John's breath was warm and homely and sweet.

'I'll go to bed. Soon. I promise.'

'Let me help you then. Your ankle will still be swollen.' John stood again, an arm slipping around Sherlock's shoulder and before the detective could resist, John was pulling him gently out of his seat and onto his feet. 

John was right. His ankle was still aching. He leaned into John as his best friend walked him slowly out of the sitting room and down the hallway to Sherlock's bedroom door.

'I'll come and see how you're doing in the morning before I go to surgery.' John croaked, the tiredness and weariness proving too much for his chivalry. 

Sherlock nodded silently, his head bent low and his eyes fixed firmly on his own feet. He didn't want to sleep alone. Alone. In that massive bed with cold sheets and cold pillows and rattling windows and dark corners. Lonely. He was lonely. Sherlock Holmes was lonely. 

'Do you want me to come i-'

-'I'm fine' Sherlock cut John off. Without even thinking. Like it was second nature to refuse his advances. Like he knew what would happen minutes before it did. Like he had the perfect response, reflex. 

He wasn't fine. He knew he wasn't. And he HAD wanted John to come in. Into his bedroom. Into his bed.

 Into his body.

'Okay...okay...well, good night then.' He traced the outline of John's weak smile in the darkness of the hallway. He watched his soldier turn and march back down the hallway and into the kitchen. The water running for far too long. John stood beside the sink. Looking out of the window into the darkness outside. Into nothing. Stood. Just staring into invisible abyss.