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For life’s most difficult conversations, sometimes it’s easier for Sherlock Holmes to retreat into his mind palace. There, the words can be found much more easily, plucked from space and made to crystallise in front of him so he can rearrange them as he wishes – so he can make sure he gets it right. And this time he wants to get it right.
They’ve been skirting around the issue for far too long, him and John. Initially, it was a distraction at worst. John would walk into the room and Sherlock would immediately want to do something to get his attention, something worthy of an overblown but nonetheless genuine piece of praise.
(Amazing, John would say and Sherlock would breathe through the tightness in his chest and busy himself with something else until John’s soft smile had faded)
Then they slipped into an easy friendship that had them both realising in turn that they’d be okay, probably, as long as they had each other. It was all fine. There were shared grins and slightly dodgy take-aways from places that didn’t have a bottom third of the door handle to inspect. So when John had Sarah and Sherlock had his violin it wasn’t really okay for him to sit home and pine for his friend. And when Sherlock got rid of Sarah, he made it his business to get rid of the others too. Sherlock needed John more than John needed to waste time and money tiptoeing around his girlfriends.
‘John, we need to talk about our current relationship.’ Distantly, Sherlock notices that his voice sounds crackly from misuse. That’s hardly surprising though, he has been in his mind palace for a while. Feelings of anxiety rarely occur for the world’s only Consulting Detective but, when they do, the antidote can also usually be found in the depths of his mind.
After the girlfriends came the shy glances in the backs of the taxis they shared and once, almost awkwardly, over the prone body of a deceased journalist. The shy glances were followed by the not so shy glances when Sherlock emerged into the living room in just his sheet or burst into the bathroom when John was in the shower; the way their hands would brush together when they walked and Sherlock would find himself angling himself towards John, around John when they were stood in a group.
(You need to just tell him, mate. Was what Lestrade had told him, one frosty morning when John had gone to find coffee for them all and Sherlock had purposefully not watched his figure shrink into the distance. If this hadn’t been deleted, Sherlock would possibly find that, in hindsight, the flood of clever deductions about Lestrade’s wife in response might not have been appropriate.)
Sherlock has counted the 15 freckles visible on John’s left arm, can recite the ingredients in John’s shampoo, knows that John will not wear his beige jumper to work, knows that he leaves his tea to steep for 1 minute and 16 seconds on average, can predict what colour John’s eyes will be in unfamiliar types of lighting. His hard drive is drowning in John but the data seems too important to be deleted. The last time he confiscated John’s laptop, he found the cached browsing history littered with gay porn and the confirmation of John’s bisexuality had made something dark and hungry inside Sherlock crow and yearn.
‘Because, despite my previous protestations that I was solely married to my work, having monitored your responses to certain stimuli involving myself, and knowing my own responses, I feel it would be mutually beneficial if we were to extend our friendship to involve-’ Sherlock wracks his mental dictionary but it seems to fail him. He gesticulates, rolling his hands around his wrist joint, but that doesn’t help either. John seems content to just let him speak so he changes tack. ‘I have no interest in defining my own sexuality, before you ask. However, although it may come as a complete shock to my brother, I am capable of attraction and although I do feel that what is forced down the throats of the masses is dull and simply a means of ensuring procreation – well-’
Sherlock can see the words, burning white hot on the insides of his eyelids in a sweeping cursive he detests himself for. John is still yet to make a sound and Sherlock can almost see him in the chair opposite, a delicate frown pinching his forehead, leaning forward slightly despite himself while he waits for Sherlock to finish. The traitorous lump of muscle in his chest thumps a staccato beat at the thought. He doesn’t want to look at John.
‘I do love you. And given that all evidence points to your emotional state being similar to mine, I suggest that from this moment we progress as an involved pair.’
***
‘That sounds like the best idea I have ever heard.’ John says. At this moment in time however, he’s talking to the surgery’s receptionist who’s just popped her head in to ask him if he wants a quick cup of tea before his next patient arrives. As per bloody usual, his earliest appointment had run over so he’d had to spend the rest of the morning racing to catch up and dealing with increasingly disgruntled patients as their appointments were pushed back further and further.
The receptionist – who is, John has to admit, a walking gift from God in terms of staff welfare – smiles a pink-lipsticked smile and before the door to his room closes, he hears the familiar wail of an unhappy baby from down the corridor. Great.
He wonders what Sherlock’s doing right now and slips his hand into his pocket to check his phone. No texts.
He’s probably talking to me as if I’m in the flat, John thinks and the side of his mouth quirks up into a smile. The now-familiar warmth that accompanies most of his thoughts of Sherlock seeps outwards towards his fingertips. He’s long since learnt not to bother fighting it and nowadays he allows himself his happy orbit of the wonder that is his gorgeous and incredibly frustrating flatmate. And he’s been in the game easily long enough to notice that, despite what Sherlock says, his feelings aren’t exactly one-sided. He scribbles a note to grab milk and toilet roll on the way home, they’re always short.
There’s a knock at the door and a mug of tea (that hasn’t been steeped for nearly long enough) is placed on his desk with a smile and a ‘you’re welcome, Dr Watson’. Back to work, then.
***
Sherlock hears the front door click and resurfaces from his mind palace with all the speed and grace of a drowning man. John.
He’s on his feet before John’s sandy head even pokes into the living room. The plaid fabric of his third favourite dressing gown billows out around him and he has time to wish he’d put his favourite one on for an occasion like this. When John appears he has a bottle of milk in one hand, the keys to the flat hooked on his fingers and a four-pack of cheap toilet paper under his other arm but Sherlock, for all his skill at observation, doesn’t notice this. He’s focused on the worn but relaxed greeting smile on John’s face which tightens into a look of startled confusion as Sherlock pads the few metres separating them. His bare feet look ghostly pale against the floorboards. He’s focused on the slight stubble on John’s chin as his raises his hands to cup the smaller man’s jaw, on the way his eyes widen in surprise.
John’s lips are cold and slightly chapped from the English wind but Sherlock is thrumming with excitement and nerves and if a human experience could ever approach perfection then kissing John would be it. Except-
Except John’s not
John’s not doing anything.
Sherlock pulls back.
‘John?’ The doctor’s eyes are wide and he’s staring up at Sherlock, mouth slightly parted and cheeks flushed. Although John isn’t as brilliant at remembering things as Sherlock is, he finds it hard to believe that he’s forgotten about their conversation already. ‘Greeting your partner with a kiss is social protocol, John.’
John blinks three times in rapid succession, frowns, swallows, and the keys in his hands jingle as he adjusts the set of his shoulders.
‘Sorry,’ He clears his throat, ‘What?’
‘Our conversation about extending the parameters of our relationship to include the romantic and physical?’ Sherlock replays the dialogue in his mind. He didn’t think John had raised any objections.
‘And,’ John clears his throat again, the pink on his cheeks hasn’t faded and Sherlock finds that he quite likes it there. ‘When was this?’
‘Hm?’
‘When did you tell me this?’ Sherlock stares down at John. The hairs on the back of his neck start to prickle as realisation begins to dawn.
‘Two hours and thirty seven minutes ago.’
‘When I was at work, by any chance?’ A wry smile starts to play at the corners of John’s lips and now that Sherlock looks, really looks, he notices the smudge of ink on the side of his middle finger, the slightly ruched fabric around his collar where his stethoscope has been resting, sandy coloured dust on the bottom of his trousers from the newly gravelled drive at the surgery.
‘It would appear so.’
‘So, um, what was the general gist of the conversation?’ John asks, shifting so he’s even closer to his flatmate. Their eyes meet and Sherlock inhales sharply.
‘It would be mutually beneficial for us to be a couple.’
For one long, terrifying moment, Sherlock convinces himself that John is going to say no.
Then the toilet rolls are tossed blindly to the side and John’s hand is in his hair, curling around the back of his neck to pull him down.
‘You’re an idiot.’ John whispers against his cheek and Sherlock realises with a jolt that he can actually feel John smiling. He opens his mouth to protest because really, but John’s lips are on his. And what Sherlock has to say seems irrelevant, anyway.
***
The street’s gone dark and the occupants of 221B have had to turn the lamps on in the sitting room to combat the dark pressing at the windows. It’s quiet. John clicks at the keys of his laptop and Sherlock turns the pages of a book at appropriate moments so John doesn’t realise he’s watching from the chair opposite. Sherlock has stretched his long legs outwards and John’s feet are a warm weight on top of his. It’s . . . comfortable.
John hasn’t typed in twelve seconds before he breaks the stillness by huffing a laugh. Sherlock glances up as though he hadn’t already been looking and meets John’s eyes. He raises an eyebrow and John’s smile widens, those little creases appearing at the corners of his eyes.
‘I can’t believe I missed the conversation where we became an item.’