4. Kissing You

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

.

'Love' is clearly an experiment for Sherlock and like all Holmesian experiments must be treated with extreme caution. John is not about to make any rash movements. He has lost his best friend once already in the last year and losing him twice would come across as careless.

It would take a much less rational man than John Watson not to wonder 'why'. Why John should love Sherlock Holmes is obvious to anyone who has stood in a room with the two of them for thirty seconds but John just can't make it out from the other perspective. There is one perfectly reasonable explanation that he can't quite get out of his head: Sherlock is bored.

Before the fall Sherlock had never made an advance on his friendship with John. He had other things to occupy his time, namely, solving mysteries. Mysteries when locked within the four walls of 221B Baker Street were severely limited. It's not inconceivable that when Sherlock's death has blown over and everything goes back to normal, that's what their relationship would return to as well. And Sherlock's mind will once again be consumed by things other than John.

.

They're both woken by the sound of John's phone vibrating offensively on the bedside table. It takes a long time for the sound to penetrate John's sleep.

"John," Sherlock moans, rolling out of the doctor's arms and covering his head with a pillow.

John yawns and runs a hand over his face before opening his eyes slightly. By the light of the room he can tell it's becoming morning.

"Jaawwnn…"

"Ok." He turns and clutches the phone off the bedside table. He sighs. "It's Lestrade."

Sherlock doesn't respond, his head hidden but his long, pale back stretched out vulnerably.

So John answers the phone. "Hello," he says, groggily.

"John," Lestrade's voice is urgent, "are you awake?"

"Clearly." He leans over and runs a soft hand down Sherlock's back. It's warm with sleep.

Lestrade pauses, as if he'd only thought this far into the conversation.

"What's wrong?" John prompts.

"Have you heard the news?"

John looks at the clock. "It's half five in the morning. I'm unemployed. What do you think?"

"It's… him," Lestrade says.

"Who?" John has a pretty good idea what has happened though.

"Sherlock. He's been spotted, in London. There were photos. It's him. He's alive."

This is what John had been dreading most, these conversations. He had never been someone who was good with the casual lie. "What?" he says, attempting to sound blank and disbelieving.

"Sherlock is alive."

"Hang on," John says and without waiting for a response he presses the mute button. He tries to lift the pillow from Sherlock's head but strong hands cling onto it.

"Go away," comes the muffled command.

"You're alive," John says.

"What?" Sherlock sits up immediately and grasps John's arm, sending shivers down the doctor's spine.

"It's in the news."

"Has there been a statement from the government or the police?"

"I don't know. Lestrade just told me." John holds up the phone to show it's on mute.

Sherlock holds out his hand. "Let me talk to him."

"No."

"This is…" Sherlock takes John's face in his hands and grips him. The distance between their noses, their lips, decreases so instantly that John can almost feel Sherlock's sharp in take of breath. Their eyes lock together and for a moment the world is nothing except the feel of Sherlock hands on John and the air that is passing between them. When Sherlock doesn't close the gap between them, John does, pressing their lips together.

Sherlock freezes for a moment that is just long enough for John to feel a panic, then he kisses back, his mouth hot and urgent. Sherlock's hands run from John's face and grasp his hair, tugging him in deeper, half soft, half violent. The need has taken over John so he's no longer aware of what he's doing. Touching Sherlock, holding him, biting him, John is possessed.

They peel apart and Sherlock's eyes search John's. "… fantastic."

"I agree," John says, with a guilty smile.

A half laugh hops from Sherlock.

"John? Hello?" They hear the shouts faintly from the phone that has been forgotten on the bedclothes.

John picks it up and unmutes it, without taking his eyes off Sherlock. "Sorry, Greg. I'm here."

"Have you looked at the TV?"

"Urm, no," John admits then says, "Are you serious? He can't be alive."

"Yes, he is."

"Really?"

Sherlock has an insane grin on his face as though all of his Christmas' have come at once. He had jumped up and pulled on some trousers, as though he was going to run out and enjoy his liberty, but now he seems to change his mind and sits down opposite John, reaching out and touching his earlobe then running his hand down John's neck. It seems he's not quite sure which is most exciting – being alive or kissing John.

John bats him away and tries to concentrate on being shocked and upset, which is made considerably more difficult by the fact that in reality he is bursting with secret delight.

Perhaps Lestrade notices the inapplicably flippant tone of John's voice. "Are you alright? Do you want to come in?"

"Did you know?" John asks.

"No," Lestrade insists. "They have been investigating the whole Richard Brooks thing but no one thought that he'd actually, you know. I've no fucking clue how he did it."

"No, no idea," John agrees. Sherlock is trying to kiss him again, but John pushes him away, putting a finger to his lips and trying to seem stern.

"John, I know this must be a shock. Look, I'll send a car around for you."

Sherlock has narrowed his eyes and looks as if he is about to pounce. This is something that John is eager that he should do.

"Greg, I'll call you back."

"Just take some time to calm down, John. Don't do anything crazy." He sounds genuinely concerned but John can't find it in himself to care.

"Fine, I won't."

"I'll talk to you later."

"Yes, bye."

Sherlock hangs the phone up for him and throws it on the floor.

"Look, Sherlock," John says, as he is pushed down onto the bed, "are you sure this is…" Sherlock has climbed on top of him and is about to stop John's mouth with a kiss when someone knocks lightly at the bedroom door.

"Shit."

Sherlock jumps to his feet just as Mrs Hudson pushes open the door. "Yoo- hoo – oh!"

"No!" John scrambles to his feet too and grabs a t-shirt from the floor. "It's not what it looks like, Mrs Hudson." Though he can't work out too many reasons Sherlock may have for straddling him half naked.

Mrs Hudson shields her eyes with one hand. "Don't mind me, dears. I shouldn't have burst in on you." She makes to back out of the room.

"No, wait," John splutters, "Sherlock was just, I was…"

Fortunately, Sherlock's superior intellect steps up the plate before Mrs Hudson has chance to runaway. "Mrs Hudson, John's decided he wants this room. We've not swopped our clothes around yet though. I was just getting a shirt to wear. There's really no need to assume we're having some elicit sexual affair."

Mrs Hudson lowers her hand and looks sceptically up at the topless detective. "That is no concern of mine, dear. I was only coming to tell you that your brother is here, Sherlock. He did say not to disturb you." She gives them a look to show she understands why now. "He's in the kitchen."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," John says as she leaves them be then mutters, "Great timing as always, Mycroft."

Sherlock is quickly dressing, a smile still on his face. He reaches for the door handle and then pauses, looking back at John. "Are you coming?"

"Not even close," John quips, "Mrs Hudson is a major turn-off."

Sherlock lowers his hand and turns to face John properly. "Did you…?" he falters.

John clears his throat then suggests, "Enjoy that?"

"Did you?"

"Yes."

Sherlock nods to himself, clearly glad of this confirmation. This sweet, child-like gesture makes John smile and ache with tenderness for the detective.

"I'm sorry to intrude on you, boys," Mycroft sneers as they both walk into the kitchen. "I hope you weren't in the middle of something important."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at his older brother and says, "Yes, sleeping."

Mycroft is sitting at the kitchen table. He unfolds a newspaper and holds it up so that they can see the headline. 'SHERLOCK HOLMES LIVES'. Beneath this is the unmistakeable image of the detective in his distinguishing coat. "Well, you two have clearly been keeping yourself busy."

Sherlock grabs the newspaper and laughs. "Front page!"

John nods appreciatively. "Those are good photographs."

"Yes," Mycroft chips in, "he's quite the cover model. Now you've been officially uncovered, I had hoped to find you not here, Sherlock."

"Why?" John demands.

Mycroft keeps his eyes on his brother. "Do you want to explain it to him, or should I?"

Sherlock sighs and says, "I suspected this was why you were here. I'm not leaving."

"Then this has all been for nothing."

"Sorry," John interrupts, "but what are you talking about?"

Sherlock turns on John with a frustration that is really for Mycroft. "He thinks I should move away from Baker Street, away from you."

"Why?"

"To avoid the press from suspecting the truth."

"What truth?"

"Don't fret," Mycroft simpers, "I doubt 'Holmes and Watson are secret lovers' would be a shock exclusive."

Sherlock ignores this. "That you'd known I was alive. It might lead them to think they've been fooled again."

"You were an idiot to step foot into this flat," Mycroft comments, twirling his umbrella.

"Go then," John says, making Mycroft look up in surprise. "He's right. You shouldn't be here."

Sherlock falters for a moment. "But I…"

"I know, but it's more important, isn't it?"

Sherlock pouts and says in the most childish way imaginable, "No."

"Seriously?" John moans.

Sherlock folds his arms in response. "I'm not going."

Mycroft smiles at them as if he'd more than expected this eventuality. "I will say this, little brother: I will not do what you would like me to, if you don't do what I would like you to."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock spits.

"Well, I supposed now was precisely when you were hoping a government statement would be released explaining away this whole fiasco so that you and Dr Watson could get on with your own special version of domestic bliss." Mycroft's smile fails to fool anyone in the room into thinking what he is saying is pleasant. "This will not happen unless you leave this flat with me now and don't come back."

"What, forever?" John can't help gasping.

Mycroft shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. "A week at least."

"Blackmail is such a noble response to the situation," Sherlock says, glaring at his brother.

"Ignoble, perhaps," Mycroft responds with a nod, "yet it has got this great country of ours to where it is today."

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

.

"God, John, you look like, well, shit," Lestrade says as the doctor walks into his office a few days later.

"Thank you, that's, yes, comforting." John sinks into a seat as though he's carrying a boulder.

"I would ask if you want a coffee but I can already see that it's going to be a yes."

"Alright, thank you! I feel fine, actually," John lies. He hasn't slept well since Sherlock left the flat. He did feel alright for the first day, it was just very quiet. Then after staring at his inanimate phone for fifty-four minutes the next morning he self-diagnosed a mild depression. He tried to keep himself busy but all of the things that made him feel alive seem to have been taken from him.

"Have you seen him then?" Lestrade asks, pouring them both a coffee.

"Who?"

Lestrade sighs. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, urm, yes," John decides. "He told me to meet him here today actually. He text me this morning."

"Of course he did," Lestrade grumbles and pours an extra coffee. "I've not seen him. Does he take sugar?"

"Yes."

Lestrade passes John a mug then sits down behind his desk. "Did you read the statement released by the government?"

"Yes, I did."

"So it looks like he's in the clear then."

"Can I just ask," John says, leaning forward in his seat, "I mean, I know we never talked about it but did you…?"

"Did I what?"

John frowns and says, "Did you believe him? Did you believe Moriaty?"

"No," Lestrade says quickly, "I mean, well, it's easy to say now, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." John isn't sure if he believes Lestrade or even if he really cares. Why shouldn't Lestrade have believed Moriaty? Everyone else did. Does John really want Lestrade, or anyone, to care for Sherlock the way he does?

"Hello," comes a deep voice behind John.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade says in a half laugh.

John spins around and looks up at the

"I need to use your office," Sherlock says abruptly, completely ignoring John.

"What?" Lestrade responds.

"It's an inconspicuous place for John and I meet."

"Right…" Lestrade shakes his head, "and what exactly is wrong with a coffee shop?"

"Exposed."

"Your flat?"

"Implicating."

"Urm, the library?"

"Too quiet."

"Surely meeting me at Scotland Yard is implicating," John points out.

"Really?" Sherlock groans. "Are we still talking about this? I must have forgotten how tiresome it is to converse with imbeciles."

"We missed you too," Lestrade mutters.

"A routine chat with the police after you've faked your own death is fairly common place, surely." Sherlock glares at Lestrade's blank face then snaps, "Ok, can you get out right now?"

"This is my office!"

"Well observed," Sherlock says icily. "Now vacate it. I need to talk to John."

Lestrade sighs as though he had expected no less from his reunion with the consulting detective. He gets to his feet, negotiates the desk and pauses momentarily in front of Sherlock, obviously deciding whether or not to say something. He decides against and leaves the office, closing the door behind him.

"Sherlock, I…" John gets to his feet and takes an automatic step towards him then falters, glancing to the glass that separates them from an office full of police officers. "Could we close the -?"

Sherlock grasps John by the shoulders and jerks him into an embrace, inhaling deeply as if the doctor was cigarette smoke and he was getting his fix.

John's arms are pinned to his sides. "Sherlock," he gasps, "you're… crushing… me."

"I don't care." But he loosens his grip slightly.

"It's only been four days." John points out.

"I haven't slept."

"I think I can tell."

Sherlock's fingers find John's face and he holds him so that he stares into John's eyes, just like that morning that John can't quite believe was real.

"People are going to talk," John says.

Sherlock instantaneously lets go of John and looks mildly wounded as he sits down.

"I urm, missed you," John offers and Sherlock sniffs. "Are you coming home now?"

Sherlock doesn't meet his eyes and plays with a pen on Lestrade's desk. "Mycroft thinks I shouldn't move back in with you. He spoke a lot about fresh starts and new beginnings."

"Well, Mycroft can go fuck himself," John bites.

Sherlock smirks as if this is exactly the kind of response he had been hoping for.

"Seriously, though?" John flops into the chair opposite Sherlock and runs a hand through his hair. "Surely everything's calming down now. Isn't it time to go back to normal?"

"Normal?" Sherlock says questioningly. "And how exactly would you define 'normal' at 221B Baker Street?"

"Us. Together."

"You call that normal?" Sherlock smiles but his eyes look weary and sad. "Mycroft thinks it won't last."

"Oh, right, for a minute there I forgot that Mycroft 'Iceman' Holmes was the country's leading relationship expert."

Sherlock doesn't smile but looks at John as if he's transmitting some important information he's not sure will be understand. "His observations aren't wrong though, John. How long can we realistically sustain our friendship?"

A panic rises in his throat and John's heart begins to thump in protest. "Come back and we'll find out together."

Sherlock takes a deep breath and says, "I'm not sure I should do that."

"What?" John jumps to his feet in hot anxiety. "Yes! You are! I will fucking make you!"

"John, calm down."

"No, I will not calm down. You can't just say that, it's not a choice you get to make on your own! Not after… not after everything."

Sherlock raises his arms resignedly. "It makes sense. You're safer without me. Why would you want me anyway?"

"You – you know why!" John feels himself paralysed by something that is on the spectrum between rage and terror. "Sherlock, you – we - !"

A smirk is slowly spreading across Sherlock's face, which makes it impossible for John to continue.

"What?" he asks. Then, as Sherlock begins to laugh, he feels his face fall into a dark scowl. "You're coming back, aren't you?" he predicts.

"Of course I'm coming back," Sherlock says with a matter of fact wide smile, getting to his feet. "I'm not a masochist."

"No," John clenches his fist. "Definitely the other thing."

"A sadist?"

"An asshole. A complete bloody asshole."

Sherlock laughs again and pats his friend on the shoulder. "John, I told you that I haven't slept since we last saw each other. I know your brain is tiny but can it really think that I will voluntarily leave your side ever again? You make it pathetically easy to provoke an emotional reaction."

John rolls his eyes. "Congratulations. You win."

"I do."

They eye each other for a moment then Sherlock says, "I love you."

"I know," John quickly responds and they grin.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

.

Sherlock sits down on the coffee table facing John. "I've got a confession to make."

John, sitting on the sofa, doesn't look up from his newspaper. "I don't mind if you use the microwave. Just this time disinfect it a couple of times after."

"No, it's not to do with that," Sherlock says irritably. "It's about that other thing."

"What thing?"

"You know, the thing you said about not being my boyfriend."

John looks blankly at the detective. "What?"

"Keep up! When you said the things we needed to be boyfriends. There was a list."

"Sherlock, that was weeks ago." He can't help allowing a smile to twitch across his face.

"Yes, well, I've been doing them," Sherlock explains. "The things you said we needed to do."

John laughs.

A frowns burrows itself onto Sherlock's forehead. "What?"

"Well, I had noticed!"

"What do you mean, you'd noticed."

John puts down his newspaper and taking both of Sherlock's bony hands in his own. "Of course I'd noticed. I'm not that much of an idiot."

"Yes, you are," Sherlock says, stooping to kiss both of John's hands in turn.

"Obviously not."

"So, I can call you my partner now?" Sherlock moves in close towards John. "Or my boyfriend?"

"No."

"No?" Sherlock's head jerks away in evident shock. "What? Why not? What did I miss?"

"There was one thing," John says, gently kissing Sherlock's jaw line, "that I hadn't mentioned."

"What?"

John reaches to Sherlock belt and calmly undoes it. He eases the fingers of one hand beneath Sherlock's underwear.

"Oh," Sherlock says.

"Ok?"

"Yes." The sexiest monosyllable as it rumbles out on Sherlock's breath. "Alright."

.

Holding Sherlock in his arms after is totally different from before. His skin is hot and damp with sweat and he wears a look of peace like a sleeping child. John isn't worried about where he puts his hands or where he doesn't and he's not concerned that the feel of their bodies together feels too good.

John realises as his mind drifts into sleep that there is no 'why', there is just this. Just no other way than this.

.

where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

.

.

The End.

.

.

Thank you everyone who's reviewed this story. It's really kind and definitely gives me confidence. I really hope you enjoyed the chapter! (this one has been the hardest to write by far! Me after two hours in front of the computer: 'So they definitely kiss…')

And for those who were wondering, this is the poem Sherlock gave to John in a 'code':

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda

Translated by Stephen Tapscott