Chapter 1: Under The Stars
Under The Stars
Song: Starlight by Muse
Mycroft had been pining for Lestrade for years. It wasn’t obvious, though... well it was to Sherlock... and Anthea... maybe John and Mrs Hudson too. Okay, and there was Sally, who always stared at Mycroft with a slight smirk when the elder Holmes adjusted his tie before meeting with DI Lestrade.
Alright, fine, so everybody knew... everybody except Greg.
Mycroft was hurting, he really was. He was a grown man in love with another grown man. It wasn’t the same sex thing that bothered him (Mycroft was as gay as any man could be) but it was the wanting, the needing, the ability his mind had to stop functioning when Lestrade was in the room.
It was embarrassing, so utterly embarrassing, to be swept up in emotions like love and joy and need and want... it was so agonising to see Greg and see him smile at Mycroft, a smile of warmth and friendship... but not of love.
Okay, Mycroft was sad, yes; he could admit to that. He was sad and lonely and depressed, especially when Sherlock pointed out his love and said, ‘Dear brother, stop drooling over my DI, it is annoying.’
Mycroft glared at him and John had the good sense to lay a relaxing hand on his flatmate. Mycroft looked murderous.
‘Sherlock, please,’ John sighed.
‘What?’ Sherlock scowled. ‘It’s disgusting; he goes all misty eyed and just... urgh.’
‘So sorry, Sherlock, maybe I’ll just stay away then,’ Mycroft scowled.
‘Maybe you should,’ Sherlock shot.
Well that was it, then. It was bad enough that Mycroft was lonely but now Sherlock wanted him gone. He stood and said, ‘Very well,’ and left before Sherlock or John could stop him.
John did stop him outside, though, looking up at Mycroft with soft eyes. ‘Mycroft, maybe just... talk to Greg, yeah? You never know, he might feel the same way.’
Mycroft scoffed but John tightened his grip.
‘I’m serious,’ he said and Mycroft turned back to look at him. ‘Just... tell him.’
And then he was gone, racing back into 221B without a backwards glance. Mycroft stared after him, ran John’s words through his mind. He thought long and hard before gulping and pulling out his BlackBerry.
Mycroft swallowed past the lump that had formed in his throat. ‘Could you perhaps... join me at my flat tonight? There’s something I want to discuss.’
‘Sure, no worries,’ Greg said in that easy way he had. ‘What time?’
‘I’ll see you then,’ Greg said.
Mycroft was nervous as he pulled the door open and it doubled when he set eyes on Greg. The other man was wearing faded jeans and a sweater, coat pulled tight around his broad-shoulders.
‘Hi,’ Greg smiled and stepped in. ‘I would have brought something but... well, I didn’t exactly know what this was.’
Mycroft smiled politely and took Greg’s coat, heart thudding in his chest as he made contact with the DI’s warm frame. ‘Yes, well...’
‘So...’ Greg said when Mycroft failed to continue.
‘Would you please join me on the balcony?’ Mycroft asked.
Greg smiled and followed the elder Holmes. He gasped when he saw the view, gasped even more when Mycroft turned him, made him focus.
‘Gregory, there’s something I want to discuss with you,’ Mycroft said.
‘Go on,’ Greg said, smiling.
‘I... well, that is I... um...’
Greg raised his eyebrows. This wasn’t the Mycroft Holmes he knew; Mycroft Holmes was never lost for words. ‘Mycroft, what is it?’
Mycroft looked up at him and nearly groaned. Greg looked perfect in the starlight; handsome, unattainable, utterly breathtaking.
No, he couldn’t do this; he couldn’t tell Greg.
‘Um...’ he mumbled.
‘Mycroft, I’m sorry.’
Mycroft looked up at him, confused. ‘What?’
Greg smiled slightly. ‘Well... I guess I’ve been...’ he sighed and ran a hand through his perfectly messy hair. ‘I’ve been kind of staring at you lately.’
Mycroft blinked. ‘S-staring?’
‘Yeah and I thought maybe you’d noticed– duh, of course you noticed,’ he gave a small chuckle. ‘I mean, I was hoping that maybe you were interested too and obviously... shit, I’m sorry,’ he sighed again. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll just go.’
But Mycroft reached out and stopped him, grabbed his arm. ‘Gregory, what do you mean you’ve been staring?’
Greg looked at him slowly, faint blush colouring his cheeks. ‘I fancy you.’
Mycroft was full of stutters that night.
‘Yeah, I have since before I got divorced. I mean, I knew my wife was cheating and so I let myself look at other people and... well, I only looked at you.’
‘I just thought that maybe you’d be interested too,’ Greg continued. ‘But obviously you’re not and you invited me here to say stop it so... yeah, I’ll just go.’
Again Mycroft reached out and tugged him back.
‘I fancy you too,’ Mycroft blurted out.
Greg’s eyes went wide before he was smiling. ‘Yeah?’
‘And you’re not just winding me up?’
‘What? Of course not, I... I’ve been in love with you for years.’
Greg was grinning properly now. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yes,’ Mycroft nodded.
Greg closed the distance between them and Mycroft froze. ‘Well then...’
And then Greg Lestrade, the man who Mycroft had been pining for for years, leaned up and kissed him right there, on the balcony, while the moon and stars and planes twinkled overhead.
Mycroft groaned and wrapped his arms around the DI, Greg grinning into the kiss.
And in that moment, Mycroft promised himself he’d never let go.
Chapter 2: A Lot Has Changed
A Lot Has Changed
Song: Sine U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson
Sherlock’s disappearance had hit John hard, harder then Sherlock himself had planned on. He sat in his brother’s flat listening to Mycroft talk about the doctor, about the pills he was on and the drinking that had started. Sherlock felt his heart twist painfully.
He cared about John, that much was obvious to him and to Mycroft too. He didn’t love John, at least not romantically, but he loved him like a best mate, like a brother... and it was killing him to see John so lonely.
‘Mycroft?’ he whispered and the elder Holmes stopped.
‘Please spend more time with John.’
Mycroft blinked. Sherlock had seen it all those months ago; the very small flicker of attraction between his brother and friend. As much as it disgusted him to think of Mycroft doing anything sex wise (sex was a mystery to Sherlock, it was just... yuck!), Sherlock wanted them both to be happy.
And maybe, just maybe, Mycroft could save John like he’d saved Sherlock.
‘You... what?’ Mycroft asked, for once in his life confused.
‘Spend more time with John,’ Sherlock said and stood. He took the wad of money Mycroft had placed on the table earlier. ‘Whatever that means I’m completely fine with.’
And then he walked out.
Sherlock watched in unfold; he watched from bushes and from busy restaurants, from surveillance footage and from Mycroft’s own words. He watched John hesitantly accept Mycroft’s friendship and, amazingly, watched Mycroft accept John’s.
He watched them spend days and nights together, at first just watching television or reading together, having dinner and talking. He watched John slowly begin to heal and Mycroft smile more.
And he watched John lean in one day and kiss Mycroft right on the lips. His brother was frozen, eyes wide, before he smiled and thanked John. Sherlock chuckled; Mycroft was so old fashioned when it came to love.
Slowly Moriarty’s empire crumbled and Sherlock was able to come back. John and Mycroft were properly together, both acknowledging the other as their partner.
John had a mini breakdown when Sherlock appeared, alive and well. Sherlock had expected the tears, and even the fist throwing. He hadn’t expected John to hit Mycroft and call him a liar, a conman, a fucking bastard.
He hadn’t expected Mycroft to cry in his flat hours later because John had broken up with him.
John seemed to forgive Sherlock immediately and welcome him back with open arms. He refused to talk about Mycroft until Sherlock sat him down.
‘John, my brother loves you.’
‘No he doesn’t.’
‘He does, he told me.’ And he had. He’d looked Sherlock right in the eye and admitted to loving Doctor John Watson. ‘You’re the first person, man or woman, that he has loved in a romantic fashion.’
‘He lied to me.’
‘He had to.’
‘He could have trusted me!’ John shouted.
‘That would have meant putting you in danger, John,’ Sherlock sighed. ‘My brother has trust issues, surely you can understand why; with me as a brother and with the work he does... John, neither of us wanted to lie to you but we had to.’
John looked at Sherlock carefully, mug of tea shaking in his hands.
‘He honestly loves you.’
‘Really?’ John asked after a minute of silence.
‘It wasn’t just a way for him to keep tabs on me?’
‘Of course not, John; he was keeping tabs on you long before you began a romantic affair.’
John smiled slightly.
‘I’ll admit that I suggested he watch out for you after he told me you had started drinking heavily. I knew he had feelings for you, even if he didn’t, and you felt the same.’ He held up a hand when John tried to protest. ‘Don’t deny it, John. For all your, ‘I’m not gay’, speeches, you were attracted to my brother from the moment you met.’
John sighed. ‘Yeah, alright.’
‘Don’t let my disappearance and our deception ruin the best relationship you’ve ever had.’
John stared at him long and hard then. ‘You... you’re actually okay with us being together?’
‘Of course I am,’ Sherlock said. ‘I know Mycroft won’t take you away from me and he is smart, has a good job, and can take care of you like you deserve.’
‘And you’re not... jealous?’
Sherlock scowled. ‘I don’t do sex, John.’
‘So... really, sex doesn’t interest you?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘So you’ve never...?’
‘Why on earth would I?’
‘No, right, ’course...’ John nodded slowly. ‘Sherlock?’
‘He really loves me?’
‘Do you love him?’
‘Yes,’ John said.
‘He’s waiting outside.’
John smiled and stood, placing his mug on the coffee table. Suddenly he pulled Sherlock in for a hug. ‘I was so lost when you left, Sherlock.’
‘I know, John.’
‘But... in some ways I guess it actually helped,’ John said and drew back. ‘I mean, I felt like I couldn’t breathe without you; everything was just messed up. And then...’
‘And then Mycroft helped you?’ John smiled and nodded. ‘Good. Now run along and be disgusting with my brother.’
John chuckled and hugged Sherlock again before grabbing his coat. He opened the door to find Mycroft waiting.
John threw his arms around the elder Holmes and kissed him softly. ‘I love you.’
Mycroft grinned. ‘Really?’
‘Excellent; I love you too.’
‘Good, now take me out for a nice dinner and then fuck me.’
‘John!’ Sherlock shouted.
John grinned and shut the door, Mycroft circling an arm around his waist.
Sherlock settled back onto the couch and steepled his fingers. His disappearance had hit John hard, yes. But Sherlock had a feeling it was his brother that had hit John the hardest.
And it made him smile.
Chapter 3: What Love Can Do
What Love Can Do
Song: Resistance by Muse
Sherlock had fallen in love with John almost immediately. He had hesitated to explore his feelings, of course. First because he thought he asexual. Second because it was John and John was straight. Third because... well, he was Sherlock Holmes. Who would want him?
But then he’d seen John look at him, smile at him, blush at him. And tentatively something had started, some kind of secret relationship where they kissed when no one was looking, where they explored each other’s mouths softly and gently.
Sherlock didn’t know why it was so fragile, why he and John were playing this close to the vest, so to speak. Mycroft was gay, he wouldn’t care. Lestrade was bisexual and already suspected Sherlock and John were together. Mrs Hudson would be overjoyed that Sherlock and John were together.
But for some reason the two felt like what they had was precious and special; like a glass figurine that would shatter if mishandled.
Neither were experienced with the same sex and it was awkward; fumbling in the dark, not sure where to put hands or what to do with certain appendages. There were the looks they got when in public when dining or just walking. Homophobic idiots who didn’t see that two men, or two women, loving each other was no different to a man and woman falling in love.
There were the cutting words from idiots like Anderson who pushed Sherlock down and Sally, who called him a Freak. Sherlock thought he wasn’t good enough and didn’t want John to have to publically be with him. John, sweet John, who deserved better then a sociopathic virgin.
John was no better off. His parents had disowned Harry when discovering she was gay. John wouldn’t be coming out to them any time soon, not that they spoke a lot.
Then there were his army buddies, the ones he kept in touch with. They jeered and poked fun of gays, called them every name under the sun. Of course there were the few who didn’t care and scorned the others but only lightly.
It was awkward but it was love, both men knew that. When they laid together the first time, exploring new areas and bringing so much joy and pleasure to each other, they told each other in hushed voices that it was love.
And it was. Slowly, very slowly, their loved blocked out everything else. It overshadowed the homophobic nature of the world, the biting words and the stares. It cut through everything and made them bond even more, it made them hold hands when people dared question them.
It made John kiss Sherlock in public when he’d solved a really difficult case and saved a little girl’s life.
Lestrade had just smirked, already knowing they were together (he and Mycroft were a couple publically and the elder Holmes was always on hand to share secrets about his little brother with the DI).
Anderson gagged and glared. Sally actually hit him and told them congratulations, which was as big a shock to Anderson as it was to the rest of them. It seemed Sally wasn’t as slow minded as Sherlock had thought.
Slowly, very slowly, their fragile relationship became strong and resilient. It became a reason to live, a reason for Sherlock to get up and not shoot up because he was bored. It became a reason for John to go to work and not brood on his family and his sometimes aching shoulder.
Some of the world was still against them, yes. Maybe in the future homosexuality would be accepted but for now it wasn’t. For now there were still people who would stare and make fun of them.
But it didn’t matter in the end.
Love was their resistance.
And it was all they needed.
Chapter 4: Help Can Come From The Strangest Places
Help Can Come From The Strangest Places
Song: Holding Out For A Hero by Frou Frou
Greg Lestrade was a failing human being when he met Sherlock Holmes. His marriage was falling apart, his daughter was barely speaking to him, and he was having a tough time solving even the simpler cases.
He was... depressed? Yes. Suicidal? Maybe. Completely and hopelessly falling apart? Absolutely.
Which was why he barely batted an eyelid when a young junkie sauntered in and solved the case. Greg just listened, jotted everything down, and sent the man with his piercing eyes and skeletal body on his way.
The man was right, of course, and Greg was praised for solving the case. Rather than make him feel better, it made Greg’s heart ache and his stomach clench. He hadn’t solved it, had he? A junkie fifteen years younger than him had.
So that night Greg went out and tried to drink his body weight in alcohol. When he woke up in hospital it wasn’t to the sad face of his wife or daughter, it was to the jaunt and shaky face of the junkie.
‘What the fuck?’ Greg murmured, trying to sit up.
‘Sit down, they had to pump your stomach,’ the man said, sounding more lucid then he had earlier. ‘What were you thinking?’
‘Wasn’t,’ Greg muttered before leaning back on the pillows. The junkie passed him a cup of water. ‘Wait, what are you doing here?’
‘I found you passed out in the gutter.’
‘I was following you.’
‘Oh...’ Greg didn’t know how to take that and just sipped his water.
‘Why... why did you try to kill yourself?’ the man asked.
Because of course he knew the truth. Greg sighed. ‘Why not? My wife hates me, so does my daughter, I ain’t got nothing to live for.’
‘But you’ve got a good job,’ the man said. ‘You help people.’
‘You do more than me.’
Greg snorted. ‘You solved the case.’
‘Yes, but you followed through,’ the man said. ‘Plus you’re not a homeless genius addicted to cocaine with an overprotective brother.’ He shook slightly and wrapped his arms around his knees, which he’d drawn up to his chin. He watched Greg carefully, eyes ever so bright.
‘Yeah, well... thanks, I guess.’
The man smiled slightly. ‘If... if I help you on other cases, will you promise not to kill yourself?’
He sounded like a child, like a ten-year-old making a pinkie promise. ‘What?’
‘I can tell you’re a good man, Lestrade,’ the younger man said and Greg didn’t even bother to ask how the guy knew his name. ‘I don’t want you to die.’
‘You don’t know me.’
The man’s eyes flashed. ‘I know everything.’ Greg didn’t doubt him. ‘So... will you?’
’I dunno...’ Greg said, ‘can you do that thing again? Where you... deduce everything from the victim’s sleeve?’
‘Yes,’ the man said.
‘Well... if you get clean I don’t see why not...’ Greg said, blinking. How the hell had his life gone so weird in a matter of hours?
The man smiled. ‘Brilliant.’
‘I’m not making any promises, Scotland Yard might not let you.’
The man waved a hand. ‘My brother, Mycroft, will sort that you; he’s the British Government.’
The man nodded and smiled again. ‘So... want me to tell you your life story?’
Greg chuckled. ‘Shouldn’t you take me to dinner first?’
‘I don’t have any money...’ the man said.
Greg noticed that the man didn’t say no and that he was suddenly blushing. Greg was too and he looked down, realising for the first time that he was attracted to the eccentric man sitting beside him... the eccentric man who had just saved his life.
‘What’s your name?’ Greg asked.
‘Sherlock,’ the other man said and smiled. ‘Sherlock Holmes.’
Chapter 5: Thinking About You
Thinking About You
Song: Longview by Green Day
Greg was feeling thoroughly worn out as he kicked his door shut, shedding most of his clothes before he got to the fridge. He grabbed a beer and popped the cap, taking a swig before shuffling into the living room.
He sat in his boxers and watched the telly but, unsurprisingly, there was nothing good on.
His mind drifted to Sherlock and John, to the way John had looked in that stripy jumper today.
‘God,’ he groaned. He really was pathetic; fawning over Doctor Watson like some lovesick teenager. It was obvious that John wasn’t gay. He lived with Sherlock and hadn’t made a move for Christ’s sake. Sherlock was beautiful, and any gay, or slightly gay, man would jump him within a week.
But not John, no, so definitely straight then.
Greg bit his lip, feeling angry and sullen and just... shitty. His cock was twitching but there was nothing new there. Greg sat staring at the TV, thinking about John and his lovely dark blue eyes, his short hair and broad shoulders.
His cock was definitely feeling in a good mood and Greg groaned. He didn’t have the energy to wank but his cock wouldn’t calm down even if he ignored it.
So he set his beer aside and dropped his boxers, kicking them free and taking himself in hand.
He jerked himself off for a minute before licking his hand to add a bit of wetness. He leaned back on the couch, groaning and letting images of John wash over him. Since his divorce he’d only ever thought about blokes (and only one bloke in particular) so this was a familiar routine; stroke self, think about John in his red and black striped jumper, come, go to bed and feel sorry for self.
Well, it would have been if Greg didn’t moan, ‘John’, just as the doctor himself said, ‘You right there?’
Was it possible for a guy to jump a foot in the air while sitting? Greg certainly felt like it. He smacked his head onto the back of the couch as his eyes flew open.
John was standing beside the couch, six pack of beer under one arm, DVD in the other hand. He smiled as Greg scrambled for a pillow, covering his still weeping erection.
‘So...’ John said.
‘What... what are you doing here?’ Greg asked, heat clawing its way up his face.
‘Well, you’ve been looking kind of put out lately and I know the signs of depression so...’ he shrugged and put the beer down.
Of course. John was always sweet; always looking out for other people.
‘The door was open and I heard moaning,’ John said. ‘I thought you might be in trouble so... erm...’
Greg groaned. ‘God, just kill me now.’ When he managed to look up John was smiling. ‘Um...’
‘Beer?’ John asked, handing one to the DI before he could refuse. Greg took it as John bent down, grabbing Greg’s boxers. ‘Boxers?’
He handed them across and turned, letting Greg dress.
‘I’m sorry,’ Greg said.
‘For what?’ John asked, sitting and grabbing his own beer. He looked comfortable, at home, not at all embarrassed about catching his mate jacking off. Maybe he hadn’t heard the moan...
‘For... well...’ Greg shrugged.
John just smiled. ‘Everyone does it, Greg, even Sherlock.’
‘Mm,’ John nodded, flicking through the TV channels now. ‘I mean, he’s not interested in sex; says it’s disgusting and why on earth would he want to think about people naked? But apparently his body has urges and he takes care of them himself.’
‘But... what does he think about?’
‘Himself, probably,’ John said.
Greg found a giggle escaping his lips and John grinned.
‘Imagine it; Sherlock thinking about himself being brilliant, it’d get him right off,’ John said.
Greg laughed properly now and sat back, hugging the pillow close and sipping his beer. John had the ability to make him feel relaxed, even after...
‘So you think about me, do you?’ John asked.
Greg jumped, eyes widening as he turned to stare at John. ‘I... I... I...’
‘I heard you,’ John said.
‘Oh God,’ Greg groaned.
‘What?’ Greg blinked.
‘I think about you,’ John said, ‘when I...’ he trailed off and looked down at his crotch before smiling at Greg.
‘You... do?’ Greg said weakly.
‘Yup,’ John said.
‘But... aren’t you straight?’
‘I was in the army, Greg,’ John said. When the DI continued to stare at him, Johns said, ‘I’m bisexual.’
‘Bi,’ Greg nodded.
‘And fancy me?’
‘M-maybe,’ Greg blushed.
‘I fancy you too.’
John smiled and draped his arm over the back of the couch, hand brushing against the DI’s shoulder. Greg shivered and John grinned.
‘So, how about we finish these beers,’ John said and nodded at the six pack, ‘and then take care of that little problem you have? You can look at me instead of thinking about me.’
Greg blinked, unsure he’d heard John right. But when the doctor just continued to stare at him, a small smile on his lips, Greg nodded.
‘Good,’ John said.
‘I’ll still think about you.’
John smirked. ‘So will I.’
‘Oh, what happened to thinking about me?’ Greg said jokingly.
John chuckled. ‘You haven’t seen me naked, Gregory. Trust me.’
Greg smirked and leaned back, more of his shoulder connecting with John’s hand. He was glad to see that John blushed.
‘Oh, Doctor Watson,’ he practically purred, over his initial hesitance now that he knew John wanted him too. ‘There’s more to me than meets the eye.’
‘Is... is that so?’ John said and swallowed.
Greg smirked. ‘Yes.’
‘Well then... we’ll just see,’ John said and smiled.
‘Yeah,’ Greg grinned. ‘We will.’
You’re Just Sherlock
Song: I’m Just A Kid by Simple Plan
Written For: DarkStarr7713
When Sherlock was a kid he didn’t have friends. Like his brother, he was too different, too smart, too... Sherlock. Nobody liked to have their entire life spouted out for everyone to hear.
Sherlock tried hard to hide it like Mycroft did; Mycroft could smile and nod and express human emotions properly, even though he barely felt half of them like Sherlock.
But the younger Holmes just couldn’t hide his differences, even when he was beaten up in high school and later taunted at university. It was why he did drugs, why he travelled and did stupid things; he tried to tell himself that he didn’t care, that he didn’t want other people around.
But Sherlock did care. He knew he was different. At night, whether he was curled up on the floor of some abandoned flat, or on a park bench, Sherlock would whimper and cry. He couldn’t hold back the anger and tears.
Mycroft had gone on to get a good job and colleagues. He had people who were scared of him or respected him. But Sherlock knew he felt the same; alone, depressed.
It changed a bit when Sherlock met Lestrade. Greg was... he respected Sherlock, cared about him, accepted that he was different. But he still shouted at Sherlock and said foul things when he was tired. He didn’t understand Sherlock, not completely.
And that meant that, even after solving the case, Sherlock would go home and cry.
Nobody expected John Watson, not even Mycroft (who basically knew everything). John... John honestly liked Sherlock for all his faults and talents. Yes, he shouted when he found heads in the fridge and when Sherlock set fire to his Doctor Who collection. But at the end of the day he smiled and tried to get Sherlock to eat. He helped on cases and apologised for Sherlock’s behaviour.
He honestly, truly, liked Sherlock Holmes.
It was a week after Sherlock had come back from his faked suicide when John found him crying. Like most nights, Sherlock was curled up on the couch sniffing, body shaking as he tried to hold back the sobs. John had been very protective of Sherlock since he came back and when he came downstairs to check up on him, he found the great Sherlock Holmes crying.
‘What?’ Sherlock mumbled.
‘Why are you crying?’
‘Come on,’ John said and sat on the edge of the couch. He reached out and placed a soft hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. His warmth spread through the younger Holmes, who turned to face the doctor.
‘I don’t... I’m sick of being alone.’
John frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Nobody cares about me,’ Sherlock sniffed.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ John said. ‘Mycroft cares about you, Mrs Hudson does too, and Lestrade, Molly Hooper, me.’
Sherlock stared at him.
‘Sherlock, you’re not alone,’ John told him.
‘I am,’ Sherlock said, moving to hug his knees. ‘All my life I’ve been alone.’
‘What about Mycroft?’
‘The age difference meant he was in university by the time I started high school.’ Sherlock felt fresh tears fall down his cheeks as memories of school assaulted him. ‘He couldn’t protect me.’
John pulled him in for a hug and Sherlock let him. Just once, just once, he wanted to feel normal; to feel like he belonged somewhere, anywhere. John hugged him tightly, whispering nothing important in his ear. But it soothed Sherlock all the same.
‘Sherlock,’ John said and Sherlock lifted his head. Suddenly warm lips to pressed to his own and Sherlock gasped. ‘I love you,’ John told the genius. ‘Don’t ever doubt that, alright? You’re not alone, you have me and Mycroft and Greg; you have people who care about you. Yeah, you’re different, but so what? Look at me; ex-army doctor who starts limping when things get bad.’
‘You’re wonderful, John,’ Sherlock said.
John smiled. ‘So are you.’
John grabbed his face and sternly said, ‘So are you.’ Sherlock stared at him. John stood slowly and held out his hand. ‘Come to bed.’
Sherlock blinked slowly before reaching up and taking John’s hand. John led him to his own room, pulling back the still warm covers. Sherlock crawled in and John joined him, the genius wrapping his arms around the smaller man immediately.
John smiled and let Sherlock nuzzle into his chest.
‘Why?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Why do you love me?’
John pulled back then and smiled down him, that warm, goofy, adorable smile that only John Watson had.
‘Well...’ he said slowly and wet his lips. ‘I love you because you’re you.’
‘I’m serious,’ John said and shrugged. ‘I don’t care what people say, or even what you say. I love you because you’re just you; just Sherlock.’
Sherlock looked him over carefully before saying, ‘Really?’
‘Yup,’ John nodded. ‘I love you because you’re an idiot.’ Sherlock smiled. ‘Because you’re handsome and smart, can be sweet and kind. I love you because you pout and throw tantrums and basically act like a kid. I love all of that about you, Sherlock Holmes.’
‘O-okay,’ Sherlock said.
John grinned and kissed him. ‘Come on, sleep.’
Sherlock huffed but leaned up and kissed John softly. John grinned against his lips.
‘Goodnight, John,’ Sherlock whispered, letting his eyes fall shut.
‘’Night, Sherlock,’ John replied.
Sherlock sighed in content, face pressed into John’s chest. For the first time in his life he was with someone who loved him, someone who understood him completely.
And, for the first time in his life, Sherlock went to sleep happy, warm, and without tears in his eyes.
Chapter 7: How You've Changed Me - Johnlock
How You’ve Changed Me – Johnlock
Song: 80 by Green Day
Main Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Written For: Sunshine Through The Storm
Sherlock first noticed it in the cab. The way John looked at him wasn’t how other people did. Other people... they mocked him or pushed him away. Only John (and Greg and Mycroft really) accepted Sherlock for who he was.
But John was the first person to really think Sherlock was amazing. Mycroft was smarter than Sherlock so there was no reason for him to admire his brother. Greg had punched Sherlock for talking about his gayer habits when they first met.
John... John just said, ‘Extraordinary.’
And that was when Sherlock began to change.
It happened again when John kept saying, ‘Fantastic’, around Greg at the crime scene. Greg just stared with his usual gruffness, wanting Sherlock to get on with it. John stared with real amazement.
Sherlock felt the need to show off no matter how stupid it made him look to other people. As long as John thought he was amazing that was all that mattered.
Why Sherlock felt like that was a mystery even to the genius.
John ran through London with him. It was a lot better than running through London by himself. John giggled and said it was, ‘Ridiculous’. He smiled and it made Sherlock smile.
And later, when Greg talked about his drug days, John looked hurt and that made Sherlock feel bad.
Why? He was beginning to question himself now, his mind. Why did it matter what John Watson thought? Why did his actions, his words, how he felt, affect Sherlock so much? Sherlock had even thanked him after he shot the cabbie! Sherlock Holmes didn’t thank people.
It was Mycroft who first asked Sherlock about it, asked if maybe there was more to John then met the eye.
‘I just think it is strange, brother,’ Mycroft said, umbrella twirling in his long fingers. ‘You act so... strange around him.’
‘No I don’t,’ Sherlock huffed.
‘Yes you do, brother,’ Mycroft smiled. ‘Even Gregory has commented on it.’
Sherlock glared at him. ‘Will you and your boyfriend stop talking about me?’
Mycroft grinned broadly. ‘You must admit, Sherlock, that John Watson has a certain affect on you.’
‘He does not.’
‘Sherlock, a lot of your habits have changed since meeting John. You actually apologise to him, you ask him if you’ve done something wrong, you eat and clean up a bit for him.’ He paused to regard his brother slowly. ‘Something about him has changed you.’
‘It has not!’ Sherlock shouted.
It was then that John came in, rubbing a towel through his hair. ‘Hello, Mycroft.’
‘John,’ Mycroft smiled.
‘Did we wake you?’ Sherlock asked, worried John wasn’t getting enough sleep. Of course it was him who dragged John around London and kept him up but Sherlock still cared, he still wanted John getting proper sleep.
Mycroft was grinning at him again and Sherlock scowled.
‘No, I was just having a shower,’ John said. ‘Tea, anyone?’
‘No thank you, John, I was just leaving,’ Mycroft said and stood. He re-buttoned his coat and said, ‘Do keep an eye on Sherlock, won’t you?’
‘Always,’ John said.
For some reason that made Sherlock smile. John cared about him, him, Sherlock Holmes. And then he saw the smile on Mycroft’s face and promptly started pouting. Mycroft just chuckled and left.
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘I miss him,’ Sherlock admitted.
Mycroft turned from where he’d been pouring himself a drink. He and Sherlock were sitting in Mycroft’s flat. Sherlock didn’t like meeting there, he was scared Greg would turn up and ruin everything, but Mycroft was a master of stealth and assured Sherlock Greg wouldn’t find out.
‘You miss John?’ Mycroft said, sitting back in the armchair across from his brother.
‘I...’ Sherlock wet his lips. ‘He makes life worth living.’ Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Sherlock sighed. ‘He makes me feel... normal, loved,’ he said.
‘Don’t act surprised, Mycroft.’
‘I’m not surprised that you love John,’ Mycroft said, sipping his drink. ‘I’m surprised you admit to it.’
‘I don’t love him!’ Sherlock tried to deny.
Mycroft chuckled. ‘Yes you do, Sherlock. Don’t deny that John has changed you.’ Sherlock grumbled under his breath. ‘He has, brother; he’s made you more... human.’ He took another sip of his scotch. ‘John made you happy, Sherlock.’
Sherlock ran a hand through hid dyed auburn hair. ‘I want to go back to him.’
‘This was your idea, brother, remember?’ Mycroft cut him off. ‘It was your idea to fake your death in order to protect John and Gregory. It was your idea to hunt down and destroy Moriarty’s empire. You cannot back out now.’
‘Why not?’ Sherlock demanded.
‘You would be putting John into danger, Gregory and myself as well.’
Sherlock scowled but went back to picking at his coat. ‘I miss him.’
‘When can I go back?’
Mycroft regarded his brother carefully. Never in his life had he heard Sherlock admit to needing another person. He’d always been a loner, much like Mycroft, and had detested human company.
Now, though... well, John Watson really had changed him.
‘Soon, Sherlock,’ Mycroft promised. ‘Soon.’
Soon was seven more months, making it almost two years since Sherlock had apparently died. Mycroft invited both John and Gregory over to break the news, Sherlock ruining it a bit by appearing at Mycroft’s side even before the front door had been shut.
‘Sherlock?’ John gaped, stumbling back into Greg.
‘Hello,’ Sherlock said awkwardly.
‘What the fuck?’ Greg stared from one brother to the other.
Slowly and carefully, Mycroft explained everything. Sherlock stood slightly behind him, eyes locked onto John, searching his face. John just stared as Mycroft spoke.
Sherlock had never felt more nervous in his life. There was John, sweet John, right there in the flesh. All the anger and fear and aching Sherlock had felt in the past two years disappeared completely.
John made him happy. He made everything better. Sherlock never wanted to be away from him again. He was stupid, arrogant, a shell of a human being without John. Without John he was just a sociopathic genius.
With John he was... human. He needed John more than anything else in his life.
‘Well...’ Greg began.
John pushed the DI aside and jumped on Sherlock, pressing a wet and passionate kiss on his lips. Mycroft and Greg watched as John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, Sherlock staring at him.
‘YOU FUCKING PRAT!’ John shouted. ‘DON’T YOU EVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN YOU... FUCK YOU!’
And then he kissed him again.
Mycroft watched in fascination as Sherlock began crying, kissing John with equal enthusiasm.
‘I’m sorry, John, I’m so sorry,’ Sherlock muttered between kisses. ‘Please don’t leave me, I can’t live without... I’m so sorry.
‘Shut up,’ John ordered and started on his shirt. ‘I’m not goddamn leaving you, you... I love you, Sherlock.’
Sherlock kissed him again. ‘I love you too.’
‘Please don’t leave me again,’ John begged.
‘I won’t, John,’ Sherlock promised. He knew he sounded like an idiot; standing in his brother’s entrance way, blubbering and declaring his undying love. But everything he did around John was weird, interesting, amazing. His brain just changed completely, his entire self changed when John was around.
And Sherlock wouldn’t have it any other way. John completed him, made life good and fun and great.
He loved John with all his heart.
They didn’t stop until Mycroft cleared his throat. ‘The guest bedroom is upstairs,’ the elder Holmes said.
John dragged Sherlock away, alternating between shouting at a still crying Sherlock and kissing the man stupid.
‘Well, that was... well...’ Greg said.
Mycroft smiled and drew Greg in for a hug. ‘I’m sorry I lied to you, love.’
Greg shrugged. ‘Mycroft, I get it, just... not again, yeah?’
‘Absolutely,’ Mycroft said and kissed him.
‘I’ve never seen Sherlock cry,’ Greg commented as Mycroft led him into the sitting room.
‘Yes, John Watson certainly has changed my brother,’ Mycroft said. There was a thump from upstairs and Mycroft groaned. ‘I’ll have to have that room thoroughly cleaned.’
Chapter 8: How You've Changed Me - Mystrade
How You’ve Changed Me – Mystrade
Song: 80 by Green Day
Main Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Other Pairing: Sherlock/John
Written For: Sunshine Through The Storm
Mycroft was annoyed, angry, goddamn pissed off. Why did the government insist on screwing everything up?
Mycroft sighed and fell to sit behind his desk. He was so tired, so utterly sick of... everything.
There was a knock on the door and Mycroft looked up. ‘Yes?’
Rather than Anthea, it was Greg Lestrade who walked in.
‘Gregory?’ Mycroft questioned. ‘What is it? Is Sherlock in trouble?’
‘Nah, he and John are shagging in 221B.’
Mycroft groaned. ‘I didn’t need to know that, Gregory.’
Greg grinned before it slowly slipped from his face. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine,’ Mycroft said even though he didn’t feel it.
‘Mycroft, don’t lie.’
Greg rolled his eyes. ‘Why do you Holmeses insist you’re fine when you’re not?’ He paused to smile at Mycroft. ‘I’ve known you seven years, Mycroft, and we’ve been friends for half of that time so don’t lie to me.’ He walked closer and put both hands on the desk. ‘How long’s it been since you ate?’
Mycroft fidgeted under his stare. Mycroft Holmes could face down world leaders without breaking a sweat, he could devise complex plans that might end thousands of lives in a heartbeat. But when faced with a worried/angry DI Lestrade, Mycroft melted.
‘Um... a few days,’ Mycroft mumbled.
‘Monday, I ate Monday,’ Mycroft said, still refusing to look up. What was it about Greg that could make him feel five-years-old?
‘And when was the last time you slept?’
Mycroft wilted again.
Greg groaned. ‘You fucking Holmeses,’ he muttered. ‘Alright, up.’
Finally Mycroft looked at him. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Up, get up, you’re coming to mine for dinner.’
Mycroft frowned. ‘What?’
‘You’re coming to mine, I’m going to cook for you, make sure you bloody eat, and then you’re sleeping in my bed, I’ll take the sofa.’
‘No buts,’ Greg interrupted. ‘Up, now.’
He said it in such a tone that Mycroft really felt that he couldn’t say no. With reluctance he stood and grabbed his coat, Greg smiling.
‘Not so tough now, are you?’ Greg teased.
Mycroft couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips. There he was, Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, being ordered around like a child...
... and he was chuckling.
‘Go,’ Greg said and nudged him.
Mycroft smiled and allowed Greg to push him from the office. For the first time in his life, he felt like the smile was a genuine one.
It would be over dinner that they looked at each other. It would be over dinner that Mycroft realised Gregory Lestrade made him feel a lot of things... not all of them childish.
It was over a glass of wine that Mycroft kissed Gregory Lestrade.
And Gregory Lestrade kissed him back.
They were now celebrating their fourth marriage anniversary. Greg was already up and showered, falling into bed and rousing Mycroft. Mycroft blinked and turned, Greg grinning at him.
‘Morning, sunshine,’ the DI said and planted a hot, wet kiss against his lips. He looked down at what Mycroft was wearing and grinned again. ‘Is that my shirt?’
Mycroft liked wearing Greg’s shirts around the house; they were big, warm, smelled like Gregory, his Gregory.
‘Yes,’ the politician said.
‘What happened to always dressing well?’ Greg said. Mycroft shrugged. ‘Ooh, look at Mycroft Holmes, wearing a shirt that cost ten quid.’
‘Shut up, Greg.’
Greg chuckled and kissed him again.
When they broke apart Mycroft smiled at him.
Not it was the most natural gesture in the world for Mycroft Holmes.
Chapter 9: I'll Be There
I’ll Be There
Song: Poprocks & Coke by Green Day
Pairing: Mycroft & Sherlock (Brotherly love, NO HOLMESCEST!)
Other Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Greg
Written For: Sunshine Through The Storm
Mycroft was there when Sherlock was born. Father was away on business and couldn’t get back. So ten-year-old Mycroft Holmes went with Mummy to the hospital.
She was in labour for seventeen hours. Yes, even before being born, Sherlock was annoying. Mycroft got his mum drinks and held her hand. He soothed her and told her it’d be okay.
He went into the delivery room, dressed up in scrubs and freaking out. But, like all good Holmes men, Mycroft pushed his feelings aside and got the job done.
Sherlock came into the world small, pale, and screaming his lungs out. The nurses, the doctors, not even Mummy could get him to shut up. When Mummy finally handed Sherlock to Mycroft, the infant stopped crying immediately. Pale blue eyes looked up into slightly brighter blue ones and then, Mycroft will swear right to this day that it happened, Sherlock smiled.
‘Hello,’ Mycroft said.
Mycroft grinned. He vowed right then and there, in that small hospital room where his mother was now snoring, that he would be the best big brother he could be.
No matter what happened, Mycroft would be there for Sherlock.
Sherlock proved to be just as intelligent as Mycroft. Mycroft spent many days teaching Sherlock to talk and walk, to count and speak foreign languages. As Sherlock grew, Mycroft taught him about the world; about bees and trees, about people and books and everything.
They had their fights, yes, fights in other languages sometimes. Sherlock would hurl abuse and curse Mycroft in language unheard of from other four-year-olds. And Mycroft would shout right back, only ever letting himself lose control with his brother.
But later, when Sherlock laid in bed crying because he thought Mycroft hated him, Mycroft crawled in beside him.
‘I’m sorry, My,’ Sherlock whispered.
‘It’s okay, Sherlock.’
‘Stay with me?’
‘I’ll always stay with you, Sherlock,’ Mycroft promised.
When Sherlock was six he fell from a tree and broke his arm. It stuck out at an odd angle, the bone pushed through skin and muscle. There was blood everywhere and Sherlock wailed, truly screamed and cried and broke down.
Mycroft was as calm and collected as ever. He picked his brother up and carried him to the house. He dialled 999 and kept Sherlock’s eyes off his arm. He soothed his brother and spoke comforting words.
He rode in the ambulance and stayed in the room all night. When Sherlock woke up after surgery, groggy and scared, Mycroft was there with chocolate and words games. He was even there with Sherlock’s teddy, Rupert.
Sherlock smiled as Mycroft jumped on his bed, the tall sixteen-year old making funny faces behind the nurses backs.
‘Sherlock? What is it?’ Sherlock only ever called him My when he was in trouble.
‘Can you... can you meet me somewhere?’
‘Behind my school?’
‘I’ll be right there, give me an hour.’
‘You’re not busy?’
‘I’m free for you, Sherlock.’
When Mycroft arrived Sherlock was huddled beneath a tree, blood dripping from his nose and a cut above his lip.
‘What happened?’ Mycroft asked.
Sherlock slammed into him with the grace of a toddler, clinging to Mycroft tightly and crying.
‘Th-th-they h-hit me,’ Sherlock finally managed to sob.
Mycroft sighed and let Sherlock cry, soothing his brother with a tight hug. When Sherlock was all cried out, Mycroft dropped to one knee. He pulled out his handkerchief and slowly cleaned the blood away.
‘Don’t tell Mummy?’ Sherlock asked.
Mycroft smiled. ‘Of course not.’
Sherlock sniffed and managed a small smile. ‘Thank you, Mycroft.’
Mycroft said, ‘Not a problem, Sherlock.’
‘Go away, Mycroft!’ Sherlock screamed. He was detoxing, body thrumming with hurt and pain and anger.
‘No, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said from the other side of the door.
‘I fucking hate you!’ Sherlock shouted, tears already falling down his face. He kicked the door before falling back, stumbling into the kitchen. He ended up tripping and falling face-first, scraping his chin against the broken tiles.
Sherlock curled in on himself, crying. Snot trailed down his pale and thin face, splashing onto his ripped and stained shirt.
Suddenly warm arms enveloped him and Sherlock turned into the embrace, crying harder.
‘It hurts, My.’
‘I know, Sherlock,’ Mycroft soothed. He sat with his back to the cupboards, Sherlock wrapped around him.
‘Don’t leave me, My, please,’ Sherlock begged.
‘I’ll never leave you, Sherlock, you know that,’ Mycroft said.
Sherlock knew, of course he knew. In all his life, no matter how hard he’d fallen, Mycroft had always been there. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll always be here, Sherlock,’ Mycroft promised. ‘Count on it.’
And he was. He sat there for five days while Sherlock detoxed. No amount of shouting or hitting could make Mycroft leave.
Mycroft would never leave.
And Sherlock would never stop thanking him in his own weird way.
When Sherlock faked his death, Mycroft was there to help get a fake body put in.
When Sherlock needed help on his hunt for Moriarty’s empire, Mycroft was there with contacts and information.
When Sherlock was starving and his clothes filthy, Mycroft was there with money and provisions.
When Sherlock came back, Mycroft’s flat was there when John kicked him out.
Mycroft was there when Sherlock cried over his relationship with John. Mycroft soothed him, calmed him, told him it would work out.
Mycroft was there when Sherlock and John got together. He was there a lot to stop them getting charged with public indecency.
When Sherlock and John married, Mycroft was Sherlock’s best man. He planned the wedding, paid for it and the honeymoon even when Sherlock protested.
When Sherlock’s son was born, Mycroft was there to help Sherlock through the emotions. He was there to show Sherlock how to hold the baby. He was there to tell stories of Sherlock’s own birth.
No matter what happened.
No matter how hard Sherlock fell or how much he pissed Mycroft off, Mycroft Holmes would always be there.
And, when Mycroft needed help proposing to Gregory and planning his own wedding and welcoming his daughter into the world, Sherlock Holmes would be there for him.
Chapter 10: Violin
Pairing: Can be read as pre-Sherlock/John or just friendship
Song: Violin Partita no. 2 in D minor by J.S. Bach
Written For: King Herod
Sherlock had warned John that he would play the violin at odd hours.
At first John thought Sherlock didn’t actually know how to play. The first few months living with Sherlock, the genius sat on the couch plucking at the strings, staring into space and generally not making much noise at all. John figured that maybe the violin was just something Sherlock liked to hold and play with, something to fidget with while his mind worked.
Much later, when Sherlock actually put a bow to the instrument, he was... okay is the word John would use. He wasn’t a master, no musical prodigy, but he could play.
And then of course there was Christmas and Irene Adler’s apparent death. Sherlock had proven after that that, while he sucked at conveying human emotions other then anger and annoyance, with a violin he could convey such depth; such happiness and anger.
It wasn’t until Sherlock reappeared, after his own apparent death, that John started to actually listen.
It started at four in the morning. Sherlock was downstairs playing softly, a piece John hadn’t heard before. The doctor woke with a smile, just glad Sherlock was back, and laid in bed listening.
It wasn’t a piece John recognised but then most weren’t. Sometimes Sherlock would convert pop or rock songs and play them on his violin. Other times he played Bond or Mozart. A lot of the time he made stuff up and just played based on how he felt.
Suddenly Sherlock stopped and there was silence; the cold, impenetrable silence that John couldn’t stand. It reminded him of death, of those few moments after he was shot when he really thought he was going to die...
... or those first few moments staring at a lifeless Sherlock Holmes.
A twinge in his leg had John sitting up and getting out of bed. He figured some tea might help and wrapped in his dressing gown, headed downstairs. Just as he entered the living room, Sherlock started playing again.
At first it was just a few strikes across his violin, as if he were testing the sound. And then he started playing.
He was standing between the windows, back to John, silk dressing gown hanging from his thin frame. His hair was still a ginger-brown, having been dyed while he brought down Moriarty’s empire. It shone red in the soft light from the lamp beside him and John watched his head dip as he began to play properly.
It started low, Sherlock’s bow moving back and forth as his fingers pressed down and darted along the neck of his instrument. It slowly grew higher pitched, Sherlock swaying back and forth more and more. He was completely absorbed in what he was doing as he gripped the bow and violin, head bowed and eyes closed as he turned.
John gasped, not loud enough for Sherlock to hear over the music, but loud enough for John’s mouth to drop open.
Sherlock had never looked more beautiful or intense, his eyes shut and mouth pressed into a line. Gone was the superiority or confusion or joy he usually had. The genius, enigmatic and self-proclaimed sociopath was gone to be replaced by a breathtaking man completely focused on the music he was playing.
John had never seen anything like it. Of course he’d heard and watched Sherlock play before but this... this was something new.
He was still swaying as the music picked up, higher pitched and faster before dropping off once more.
John really didn’t know how to explain his thoughts or feelings in those moments. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, didn’t know the name or label to put on what Sherlock’s music was making him feel. It was... strange, comforting, almost like sitting in the bath and drinking a nice, hot cup of tea.
But at the same time it was like laughing with friends, like being young and bubbly and full of life.
John just stood in the doorway staring at Sherlock, at his flatmate, his friend, who was dragging his bow back and forth like the piece of wood was an extension of his arm. His wrist was fluid, his fingers gripping it lightly but firmly. The horsehairs slid across the four strings, emitting soft and loud noises, high and low ones, as Sherlock’s long, pale fingers pressed to the strings, sometimes stopping, sometimes dashing, a lot of the time wiggling.
Suddenly he was playing shorter bursts, the bow only being half pushed or pulled back along the strings. John felt like smiling, like grinning, his muscles twitching without his consent as Sherlock ducked his head, his body, entire frame playing along to the music.
Sometimes his head was bowed, other times he stood tall, violin pressed to his delicate, pale neck. He had the oddest expressions on his face, ranging from anger to furrowed eyebrows to grins and little smirks.
John watched an entire spectrum of emotions pass the younger man’s face, more then he’d ever seen before. Sherlock’s mood usually ranged from angry to bored to exhilarated.
Now, though... now John saw everything; sadness as he dragged the bow slowly, fingers soft and delicate. Anger as a note went too high, his eyebrows coming together in irritation at himself. Joy as a certain part of the song went smoothly, perfect even to Sherlock’s critical ears.
Mostly he was just content for the time being, completely swept up in what he could do, what he could play. John knew now that Sherlock’s love for the violin wasn’t a passing devotion, nor a small one. The instrument was how Sherlock expressed himself, whether it was by plucking random strings or composing a complicated piece of music or even playing Lady Ga Ga. For Sherlock, the violin was another part of himself, a part that he actually knew and enjoyed.
The song came to an end all too quickly in John’s opinion. The last note rang out and Sherlock, his back to John again, stood tall, letting his violin and bow fall to his sides.
He looked relaxed, his shoulders down and head tilted to one side as he stared out the window. John suddenly felt like he shouldn’t be there, like Sherlock would be embarrassed or annoyed that John had heard and seen such a personal thing about him.
Slowly, John backed out of the room and stood by the stairs, waiting until he heard Sherlock put his violin away to come back out. He made his presence known, dragging his feet and yawning.
Sherlock was lying on the couch and looked up. ‘Did I wake you?’ he asked.
‘No, I had a nightmare,’ John lied and smiled, trying to look tired.
Sherlock smiled back and John shuffled into the kitchen for a glass of water. When he came back out Sherlock was in the same position, eyes closed and lips partly smiling.
He looked more beautiful, more peaceful, than John had ever seen him before. He put his glass down on the table and looked up. ‘Sherlock?’
‘Yes, John?’ When John didn’t say anything, Sherlock opened his eyes. ‘What?’
‘Um... come to bed with me?’ John asked. ‘I need... I don’t want to be alone.’
Sherlock blinked a few times before nodding and standing. He followed John to the doctor’s room, both climbing under the blankets and shifting to get comfortable. Tentative arms wrapped around Sherlock’s waist and the genius let them, he let John hug him and press in close until they were spooning.
John stared at the back of Sherlock’s head, images of the genius playing so beautifully, so passionately, running through his mind. He knew he’d never be able to forget that Sherlock was capable of expressing that level of emotion.
With a small smile, John yawned and closed his eyes.
‘Goodnight, John,’ Sherlock whispered.
‘’Night, Sherlock,’ John whispered back.