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Are We There Yet?

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They say you’re really not
somebody until somebody else
loves you.

-Ingrid Michaelson

 

The text from Lestrade came in just before midnight.

LOCKED ROOM DOUBLE MURDER. WILL YOU COME?

“If I were the sort of person given to base humour,” Sherlock murmured, “now would be the time for some kind of remark along the lines of---”

“Never mind,” John interrupted, his voice sounding a little blurry. He felt that one of them should probably get up and fetch a damp flannel, but he himself felt too indolent to move.

And Sherlock, of course, never cleaned anything, including apparently, the inevitable and sticky remains of their first mutual orgasms ever. Or maybe that should be the sticky remains of their inevitable first time mutual orgasms.

Instead, Sherlock just moved closer, rather draping himself over John, seeming as comfortable as if he’d been doing that for years. “I have been wondering what it would take for Lestrade to realise he needs me. Apparently, a locked room double murder is that case.” He had chafed at the past three weeks of inactivity, although John was not absolutely convinced that, after a miraculous resurrection, twenty-one days was such a long time to wait for everything to return to normal.

With ‘normal’ being a relative term, of course.

For example: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes being tangled together in a sheet clammy with sweat and tacky with cum was about as far from normality as it could get.

The logical thing to do, of course, was to clean up the mess and then probably have a serious discussion about…well, everything, really.

But John knew all too well what was actually going to happen. After all, he knew Sherlock Holmes.

So it was no surprise at all to find that thirty minutes later they were sitting in a taxi on their way to the far reaches of London.

It gave them some time, at least.

“So,” John mused, “should we talk?”

Sherlock did not look up from his rapid texting. “We often talk, John.”

“You know what I mean,” John said, sounding perhaps slightly more pissy than he’d intended.

At least the tone got Sherlock’s attention. After one more flurry of text, he shoved the phone back into his pocket. “I suppose you are referring to the fact that we just had sex.”

‘No, I’m referring to the fact that I think my sock index needs help.” John snapped and then shook his head. “Of course I’m referring to the fact that we just had sex.”

Now Sherlock was looking at him with mild curiosity. “What would you like to say? Or have me say?”

“We had sex,” John said through gritted teeth. He glanced at the driver, but the man seemed to be totally engrossed in the sitar music coming from a small radio resting in the passenger seat.

“Yes, we did,” Sherlock agreed. Then, improbably, he gave a small, almost gentle smile. “I found it quite nice.”

“You---” John didn’t know what he wanted to say.

“I hope that you also found it nice.”

John stared at him and then nodded. “I did, yes. Couldn’t you tell? It was…amazing. But it was also unexpected.”

“John, you kissed me first.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault?”

Now Sherlock looked irritated, a much more familiar expression. “I was not apportioning blame. There is no blame involved at all. You kissed me and I kissed you back and then we ended up in bed.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple, John, unless you want to complicate it with ridiculous doubts and loud proclamations of your not-gayness, which I, for one, am rather bored with by now.”

“I’m not---” The words trailed off.

“Shall we just acknowledge the possibility that you are bi-sexual and move on? If you must label it.”

“I don’t have to label anything,” John muttered. “I’ve just never been keen on other people labeling me either.” He did something that had only ever been a passing thought, a secret longing, before, and carefully pushed several curls from Sherlock’s forehead. Maybe he was adjusting to this new reality more easily than he’d expected. “Aren’t you at least a little bit surprised?”

“No.” It was a blunt response, one that left no room for doubt. “Were you surprised, John? Really? After everything?”

There was a pause.

John shook his head and answered honestly. “No.” His next words were a mere whisper. “Why did you even want to do that, Sherlock? I thought you never…”

“Not ‘never’. Rarely. And not for a long time.” Sherlock paused. “Not at all since the day you walked into the lab, quite honestly. Which, I hope, tells you something.”

What it told John was so overwhelming that he could not respond for some time. He did, however, do the curl swipe thing once again and enjoyed it just as much the second time as he had the first. It could become a habit, especially as Sherlock did not seem to mind in the slightest.

Sherlock sighed. “As for why, I should think that was fairly obvious.”

“I’m an idiot, remember? I see, but I do not observe. Obviously.”

Sherlock looked out at the London night. Then he turned to face John again, reaching out to take his hand, holding it tightly. “I wanted to do it, John, because I wanted you. For the first time in my life I deeply and passionately wanted another person. I have wanted John Hamish Watson for a very long time. I still want you and it seems obvious to me at any rate that I always will.” He shrugged. “Make of that what you must, but never doubt it.”

John was scarcely aware that the taxi had finally stopped or that Sherlock had handed over some bills to pay the fare. Then the detective opened the door and jumped out. “Come on, John! No time to waste! Murder in a locked room!”

Without hesitation, John took the hand that was extended towards him. He was then yanked unceremoniously from the car, but not released. They stood, just for a moment, looking at one another. It felt as if something had shifted, realigned, and was at long last settled properly. “Me, too,” John said quietly. “All of it.”

Apparently, as usual, Sherlock could not help looking smug. Although this time, at least, maybe it was justified. “I know.”

John took a deep breath. “The game is on,” he said.

“Indeed. A new and better game.” Sherlock grinned at him, squeezed his hand with what felt like fierce possessiveness, and then let go, before spinning around and striding towards the crime scene.

After just staring at the still-warm hand for a moment in bemusement or, perhaps, amazement, John shook his head and hurried to catch up.

***