Chapter Text
Sherlock. Sherlock what the hell was that? Come home now. JW.
Well John, I believe that was what you “normal” folk call a kiss. You clearly didn’t like it, and if it’s all the same to you I’ll come back later. SH.
Now. Please. JW.
Fine. SH
Sherlock sighed and deposited his phone into his left coat pocket. John wanted him. He’d return sooner or later, best to cut the agony off now. Get it over with. Ascending the stairs he felt a strange ache in his chest, like his heart was on the blink, and his lungs had shrunk. He filed the feeling away for later. Opening the door, he slunk into the living room, pointedly ignoring John. But oh ho John was having none of that. He grabbed Sherlock by the arm and swung him around so they were face to face.
“What,” John said quietly, using what Sherlock had labeled his ‘doctor voice’, “was all that about then?” He looked perplexed, yes, but affectionate, not angry.
“I…uhm,” Sherlock managed, “I—”
John shushed him, “Because I’ll tell you what I got? Fuck it all Sherlock, I never want to see you like that again. So…vulnerable. Sad, even. I never want to see you leave.”
Well that made it easier. John wasn’t angry. Not even a bit.
“I think I love you, John,” Sherlock said after a short pause, “with all my heart. But I can’t be sure, without sufficient data on the topic it’s damn near impossible to draw even the haziest of conclusions.”
John huffed out a breath and curled Sherlock closer to him. “Well I’m not what one might call an expert on the matter either, you having scared away all my girlfriends within hours of meeting them.”
He said the words without malice or resentment, just stated as fact. Sherlock hummed contentedly and pulled John down onto the sofa, surprisingly happy to curl up in John’s lap and gaze vacantly at the flickering light of the television.
He wasn’t too affronted however, when John groaned, muted off whatever inane crap had been playing, and dragged Sherlock up to face him. Sherlock studied John’s features intently, looking for anything that could give him a view of what the good doctor was thinking. John looked somewhere between grinning like a madman and having a minor breakdown. After what seemed like an eternity John managed to breathe out the words “you are so beautiful, you know that?” and Sherlock had ducked his head and buried his face in John’s chest. Anything to avoid showing John his flushed face, and hearing the older man’s steady heartbeat was just a bonus as far as he was concerned. “As are you,” he mumbled without lifting his head. John damn near did cry then, but he blinked away the tears and turned up the volume on Torchwood once more, trying to lose himself in the blatant sexual tension between Jack and Ianto that filled every episode.
Sherlock was his. And that was great. But now was not the time to confuse the poor man with happy tears. After a short while his stomach grumbled, and not long after that, Sherlock's did too. John removed himself from beneath Sherlock, which was no mean feat. The man was skinny, yes, but god he was heavy. John chuckled as Sherlock whined at the lack of contact, but made his way into the kitchen nonetheless.
“John,” Sherlock whined from the sofa.
“What? I’m hungry, not all of us can live on air and tea, no matter how many stereotypes say we can. And to be quite honest with you, ‘Lock, I think tonight’s events call for greasy curry.” With that John picked up the phone and called the Thai place on the corner. Sherlock was torn between being affronted and admiring John, baggy jumpers and all. In the end he settled for a mixture of the two, scowling as he stared unabashedly at John's arse. The scowl dissipated almost instantly as John lifted Sherlock's torso up, sat down, and dropped the man back onto his chest.
“Not exactly the normal way to start one of these things.” Sherlock’s deep voice rumbled once again through John’s chest.
“No. We never did do anything quite as expected though. Not a great start, pretty nice ending though.”
Sherlock looked up, confused. “For me, definitely. For you, how so? I can’t help but feel that you get the short end of the stick here, John.”
“Why on Earth would that be? I’m the one with a beautiful, mad genius curled up on my lap.” John smiled, that being the only way to avoid breaking down, holding Sherlock close and telling him everything no one else ever had. There was time though, and Sherlock did not need to be smothered right now. Sherlock merely snuffled closer into John's chest and said nothing.
All too soon the food arrived, and John heaved himself out from underneath six feet of consulting detective. Sherlock was vaguely miffed until he saw John climb the stairs once more, bearing a dozen foil trays and grinning broadly.
"You going to be able to eat all that?" Sherlock asked quietly.
"No," John said, "but that's alright because you're eating too."
"But John--" came the whine of the sulking man-child. "Don't 'but John' me with your face and your voice and that--no. You're eating." John grumbled good-naturedly.
The two sat in silence, Sherlock nibbling delicately at a spring roll in the hopes that John might not notice how little he was eating. In due course John set his chopsticks aside and sighed. Sherlock was tired of waiting and hauled John to his feet.
"Hi," he said once they were mere inches apart. They stood like that for god knows how long, each man tangled in the others arms and each utterly content. In the end it was Sherlock to close the gap between them in a sweet and chaste kiss, and once again, John let Sherlock take the lead. They slowly made their way up the stairs to John's bedroom, stopping every so often to look at the other, to make sure that one wasn't about to wake up and ruin everything.
As the pair lay in John's bed, still clothed, it was Sherlock again that took the lead and asked the question that had been bothering them both.
"How are we going to tell," he hesitated, motioning indistinctly at the air between them, "people. About this."
"The way we tell people everything," came John's ever gentle reply, "in the way they least expect, at a bad time, and in a manner that puts them at great inconvenience. Probably over a body at a crime scene. Or a family dinner with my uncle."
"Uncle? Homophobe?"
"Ah so much worse than your average narrow minded thug. He's old too."
Sherlock chuckled, "I'll deal with him."
"I don't doubt it." John smiled, and drifted off to sleep, held tight in Sherlock's arms.