THIS IS A TRANSLATION OF MY GERMAN FANFIC "Wo du schon glaubst, da denk ich noch". Translator was the wonderful SwissMiss – you can find her on Ao3.

Reason goes before a Fall

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Chapter 10: If you should fall into my arms, trembling like a flower

(Chapter title from 'Let's dance' by David Bowie)

Sherlock stood in front of the door to 221 Baker Street. In one hand, he held a duffle bag with the clothes Mycroft had arranged to be brought for him from the flat.

He looked up at the outside of the building, his heart empty. Then he unlocked the door and went inside. He heard Mrs Hudson's light steps almost right away.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed and enveloped him in a surprisingly strong embrace for such a slight person. He wrapped his free arm around her and briefly returned the gesture before pushing her away.

"Oh, Sherlock - what a mess you've got yourself into this time!" Mrs Hudson sighed, giving him a compassionate smile. "How are you doing? Are you sure you're all right? You look pale. Have you not been eating again?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied, forcing his lips into a mollifying smile. "Perhaps a bit wobbly..."

"You poor dear..." Mrs Hudson hesitated, and Sherlock steeled himself for the inevitable. "John... I mean... do you think... will he be back?"

Sherlock shook his head, biting his lip. "He won't be coming back. I don't just think that. I know it."

"Oh, Sherlock! How can you say that?" Mrs Hudson cried in dismay.

"Because I made sure of it myself," he said bitterly and went up the stairs.

"Shall I bring you up something to eat later?" Mrs Hudson called hopefully up after him.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock called back, neither stopping nor turning around. He slowly approached the door to their … no, to his living room. He dropped the bag and went inside.

His attentive gaze flicked around the room. Took in every change, stored it, catalogued it, compared it to his memories.

John's laptop was gone. The furniture stood in slightly different positions. The room looked as if it had been tidied; it was mostly the same, and yet everything was different. When Sherlock finally hit upon the right words for it, he shivered: the space felt like no one lived there; abandoned.

Sherlock went into the kitchen and opened the drawers and cupboards. John's mug was gone. The one with the emblem of the Northumberland Fusiliers. But his other mug, the one with the colourful stripes - that one was still here... Sherlock had bought it for him because he'd used John's original mug (the ugly, spotted one) for an experiment and it had broken.

Sherlock smiled wanly.

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It wasn't until two days later that he gathered up the courage to go up to John's old room. When he finally opened the door, he stood forlornly on the threshold and stared at the bed, made with military precision, the open wardrobe with the empty shelves inside, the cleared-out dresser, the bare walls where John had removed his pictures and photos. Sherlock could just barely smell a remnant of John's aftershave. And soon that would be gone too.

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The worst days were the ones when the kitchen floor would creak by itself - as they tended to do in an old house like that - and Sherlock would look up from his laptop or his violin and say, "Just a cup of tea for me John, thank you," only to remember that John wasn't there anymore.

On days like that, he often went and stood in the doorway to John's room for hours, staring forlornly at the precisely made bed, the empty cupboards and shelves, and the bare walls with the nails sticking out where pictures used to hang.

He didn't take on many cases; only a few from his web page, and only those he didn't have to leave the house for.

Lestrade sent over two requests for help, but he turned them down. He didn't even bother answering the questions regarding his health.

Sherlock knew he was well on his way to becoming a bitter old man, but there was nothing he could do about it.

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John didn't drink anymore. It didn't help anyway. The gin couldn't drive away the loneliness that came over him every evening when he went back to his room at the bedsit after his shift at the clinic. It also couldn't replace Sherlock.

Sherlock, who had done something unforgivable to him. Sherlock, who was still his best friend. Sherlock, who he wanted... no, had wanted. John sighed. Who was he kidding? He still wanted him. He'd always want him. But how was he ever supposed to forgive him for using that desire against him, for playing him with it? And not just the physical desire... no... John could have dealt with that. But what he felt for Sherlock wasn't just physical... what he had felt … or still felt? He wasn't sure himself anymore.

John received text messages at irregular intervals. They were always from Mycroft and they always said the same thing.

- Do you know what you would say to him now? -MH. -

No. John still didn't know.

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One Thursday afternoon (or maybe it was a Wednesday, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure), he was lying on the couch in his pyjamas and a dressing gown, plucking at the strings of his violin when he heard a woman's footsteps on the stairs. He assumed it was Mrs Hudson. He sighed in annoyance. She'd just forced him to eat three days ago, and she'd started up again about it this morning.

"Mrs Hudson! I'm not hungry! I don't care whether it's roast beef or chicken soup, I don't want it!" he bellowed rudely without looking up.

"Oh... erm... I'm not Mrs Hudson," said a voice that Sherlock knew all too well. He turned to the side in surprise to look at his visitor.

"It's me... Molly." She smiled shyly. She became even more uncertain when Sherlock didn't react beyond staring at her, his eyebrows drawn together. "Molly Hooper," she added, shifting her weight from one leg to the other.

"I know who you are, Molly. Why are you here?" Sherlock asked in a dismissive tone.

"Oh... I... I heard you were home again," Molly answered nervously. "And so... so I thought I'd just pop by."

"Why?"

"To see how you are," Molly explained. "I have a present for you." She held out a package wrapped in blue paper.

Sherlock barely glanced at it. "I don't need a new magnifying glass," he said shortly. Then he stood up and went over to her.

"Molly, I am going to do you a favour."

Hope and anxiety flared up in Molly's eyes when she looked at him. "You are?" she asked, her voice trembling and unsure.

"I'm going to save you some time."

"Time?" She blinked up at him, her cheeks glowing pink although she didn't understand what he meant.

"It's obvious that you're in love with me."

"Sherlock!" she protested quietly, lowering her eyes in embarrassment.

"Give it up," he said bluntly. "There's no point."

Molly lifted her eyes and stared at him, her mouth open. "What?" she asked in a shaky voice.

"Molly, we're not a couple and we will never be. Put it out of your mind. The sooner the better. Your feelings for me are a complete waste of time. I will never return them."

Her eyes filled with tears. Sherlock watched her in a detached manner.

"But... but... how can you be so sure?" she whispered in a watery voice.

Sherlock leaned down a bit, noting the fact that she shivered despite his abrasive words, and whispered in her ear, "I prefer men." Then he took a step back and gave her a bitter smile.

Her mouth formed a horrified 'Oh!', her eyes widened, and she stared at him, stunned, still holding the present with both hands.

"But... Sherlock!" She choked out a sob before getting herself under control again. "How can you be so sure? I mean... have you even ever..." Her voice dwindled away to a whisper.

Sherlock had to raise an eyebrow in acknowledgment of her obstinacy. She certainly didn't give up easily.

"Yes, Molly. I'm quite certain. There's no need for additional experimentation. It would only confirm the currently available results."

Her right hand flew up to cover her mouth. A dry sob rang out, then she ran down the stairs.

"All hearts are broken..." Sherlock whispered Mycroft's motto to himself as he went to close the door. He could hear Molly's sobs from the flat below, accompanied by Mrs Hudson's comforting words.

"So Mrs Hudson knows it too now," Sherlock thought with a grim smile.

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That very same day, John withstood the temptation to buy a bottle of gin or wine after work, instead going for an ice-cold fizzy drink; it wasn't even noon yet, and it was already over 25 degrees centigrade outside. He'd had the night shift again, and felt utterly knackered.

As he went up the stairs to his room, his thoughts also wandered down strange paths. He was too tired to rein them in as he usually did.

It was a mystery to John as to why Mycroft was so interested in his affairs. Did the repeated text messages really originate in concern for his younger brother, or did Mycroft have some other motive?

Because if it were solely concern behind the texts, then Sherlock must really be in a bad way. Maybe even bad enough to relapse into his old habits? God! John didn't even want to think about it.

But should he go back to Sherlock just because his doctor's conscience wouldn't give him any rest otherwise?

And even if he wanted to go back … would Sherlock want that? After all, he was the one who hadn't wanted to see him at the end and hadn't reacted to any of John's attempts to contact him.

On the other hand... Mycroft did seem to have a certain insight into the whole situation. Taking into account Mycroft's persistence in sending John text after text, there must be some hope … even if Sherlock's attitude didn't really allow for such a conclusion.

When he reached his room, he unlocked the door, went in, and closed and locked the door behind himself.

So... there was really no doubt then that Sherlock would take him back.

Should he go back because he was terribly bored and missed the excitement of the cases?

Or should he go back because Sherlock said he... loved him?

Could that even be true?

It was true that Sherlock had probably saved his life when he threw himself on top of John and shielded him with his body from the explosion. People didn't do things like that unless they were madly in love with the other person.

At that point, John had to sit down. He collapsed onto his bed.

Sherlock really did love him.

That was the pure, unvarnished truth.

What about him?

What did he feel?

John stared up at the ceiling, and all of a sudden everything became clear.

As if on cue, his phone pinged.

A text.

- Do you know what you would say to him now? MH. -

- YES, dammit. Where is he? JW. -

- Taxi downstairs. Driver has address. MH. -

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Sherlock couldn't stand to stay in the flat any longer that morning. He sent Lestrade a text that said, 'Bored to death. Would even look for lost dogs. SH' He only had to wait half an hour before Lestrade rang.

"Today's your lucky day then, Sherlock! Lost dogs aren't exactly my division, but we do have a pretty interesting murder."

"No, Lestrade. It's your lucky day today, because I'm going to solve that case for you. Give me the address, I'll take a taxi."

The taxi dropped him off shortly thereafter in front of an abandoned factory. There were several police cars there, and as always, Sergeant Donovan was standing at the crime scene tape, ready to take him up to the second floor.

No sooner had Sherlock come to the top of the stairs than Lestrade strode over to him.

"We need to hurry. We'll end up with some pretty unpleasant smells otherwise, hot as it is."

Sherlock gave him a condescending look. "Tell it to Anderson. You know I work quickly."

Lestrade laughed and asked, "Where's John, anyway? I haven't seen him in a while. Is he sick? Or on holiday? He didn't say anything, but..." Lestrade shrugged his shoulders.

The totally innocent question, so utterly removed from any connection to reality, threw Sherlock completely for a loop. He'd forgot that no one aside from Mrs Hudson and Mycroft knew that John had left.

"I..." he started to say, but didn't know how to continue. What should he tell Lestrade? What words could he use so as not to arouse his pity?

The Detective Inspector's eyes were still on him. Expectant. Clueless. How could Lestrade not see it? How could he possibly assume everything was the way it used to be?

"John..." Sherlock tried again, but it was painful even to say his name. His mouth hurt just from enunciating that single syllable, the one that had fallen from his lips so easily mere weeks ago.

"John is..." he forced his vocal cords to say, but he couldn't manage any more. What else could he say? John left me? No, he'd never expose himself like that in front of Donovan. Should he lie? It would all come out sooner or later, though, and then he would shot his credibility to hell. What was the point of it all anyway?

"He..." isn't coming anymore, he'd wanted to force himself to say, but just then he heard a quick set of footsteps on the stairs, along with loud panting.

That panting!

Sherlock's head jerked around in the direction of the sounds, which were coming closer.

John?

Could it really be John?

Mustering all the strength he could, he suppressed that tiny flicker of hope. That tiny glow in his heart. He could make it without John, but not if he kept on hoping only to be disappointed over and over again. It was probably just some overzealous sergeant bringing news for Lestrade...

JOHN!

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.

John, here, in front of him. Breathing hard because he'd run up the stairs much too fast. His eyes passed quickly over Sherlock before he turned to Lestrade.

"Sorry, had something I needed to take care of. What did I miss?"

"Not much," Lestrade answered. "Forensics is still in there taking pictures before Sherlock manhandles everything."

"I don't manhandle," Sherlock retorted automatically. "I..." His gaze flickered to John, who was acting as if nothing had happened. As if everything were the same as it always had been. As if everything were... normal.

They had to wait several more minutes before the forensics team were finished. During that time, John and Lestrade chatted easily about inconsequential things - like the current weather situation, which was abnormally hot even for August, and a love affair that some actor or other was involved in - while Sherlock stood off to the side a bit, failing to understand why such a completely normal situation should feel like a bad acid trip.

When he was finally given access to the body, though, he managed to do his job in spite of everything else. John did what he always did to help Sherlock, and a tiny bit of the unshakeable calm he was somehow emanating seemed to seep into Sherlock as well.

It turned out that they'd need an autopsy to determine the exact cause of death. Sherlock gave Lestrade a few tips and ideas to follow up on.

The police packed up their things, the body was removed, and everybody got ready to leave.

"I'm going to have a look at the other room," Sherlock announced, adding, "John?" He went ahead, and it took an enormous effort not to turn around to see if John was following him.

The other room was identical to the one the body had been in. The same smell of dusty cement and plaster. Scraps of plastic wrapping lay in the corners. One window pane was broken and the other was opaque with dirt and filth.

Sherlock turned around, and at the sight of John, a relief flooded through him that he wasn't prepared for.

"John... where have you been all this time?" Sherlock said in his usual slightly arrogant tone to mask his unexpected feelings.

As John looked him over, Sherlock realised that the other man was getting more and more nervous with each passing second.

Then he seemed to give himself a little shove. He straightened his body, his posture became more military. Sherlock could tell that John had come to a decision.

"As I said: I had something I needed to take care of," John finally said, reaching into the inner breast pocket of his light summer jacket. "Here. For you." A blush of embarrassment rose to his face.

Not understanding what he meant, Sherlock stared at the little bouquet of flowers in John's hand and took it, bewildered.

"Myosotis arvensis," he murmured. "For me?"

"Yes, of course they're for you! I thought... They didn't have anything else that small in the flower shop. It had to fit in my pocket. I didn't want everyone to see it. And I thought forget-me-nots... I'm afraid they're a little squashed..."

"For me?" Sherlock repeated in shock, looking back and forth between the flowers in his hand and John's face with astonishment that bordered on reverence.

"My God, Sherlock," John laughed uncertainly. "Yes, I bought them for you. Don't you like them?"

"No one's ever..." Sherlock murmured, still in the grip of the same awestruck emotion. "John..."

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," John said soberly. "I acted like an idiot. Tell me..." His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "Can I... can I ever make it up to you?"

"It was all my fault," Sherlock said, his tone serious. "My idea. My fault. I thought I was so clever. Too clever. I thought there weren't any holes in my plan. No risk. That was … arrogant of me."

John looked at him with concern. "Sherlock? Are you all right? You don't have a fever, do you? Or did you hit your head?"

"I'm not going to say it again. Once will have to suffice," Sherlock said with a mixture of embarrassment and condescension.

John nodded. "That's enough for the time being."

"You'll... come back?" Sherlock asked with atypical hesitance, holding his breath without realising he was doing so.

"Yes, I'll come back... back to Baker Street. Back to Mrs Hudson. And back to you, you brilliant idiot! Back where I belong."

Sherlock was so relieved to hear those words that he felt weak. "Mrs Hudson will be overjoyed."

"And you?" John asked softly.

Sherlock smiled. "Ecstatic," he answered just as softly, and although he tried to make it come across as dry, he wasn't entirely able to mask the depth of his emotions.

"Fine, then..." John grinned bashfully and went to stand directly in front of Sherlock. "There's something else I'd like to ask you..."

This time Sherlock's heart didn't skip a beat; instead it started beating in a wild tattoo.

"Oh God, John... no... don't..."

John furrowed his forehead. "What? What shouldn't I..."

"The flowers... you... you're going to propose to me!" Sherlock blurted out, both horrified and touched. "God, John... by all that's holy... don't do it!"

John paused and gave Sherlock an odd look. "Let's just go through this hypothetically then," he said slowly. "If I were to propose to you... what would your answer be?"

Sherlock trembled, and he realised that John was holding him in his arms and looking up at him with that faint smile and that same unshakeable calm.

"I'd say yes," Sherlock replied, his voice rough, but without hesitation. "God help me, I'd say yes," he repeated. "John, promise me that you'll never, ever ask. I'd be a terrible husband."

"Never?" John pressed. "I'm afraid I can't promise that. Never... that's so final, don't you think?" John's grin became wider and more mischievous.

"You... you weren't going to propose at all!" Sherlock hissed when he realised that he'd fallen for it. "You tricked me!"

"Maybe a bit," John admitted without even a trace of guilt. "But I really do want to ask you something."

"What?" Sherlock asked warily.

"Whether it's all right if we..." Once again, those tell-tale signs of embarrassment appeared on John's face. "I mean... is kissing allowed now?"

Sherlock was only able to nod dumbly as he lost himself in John's sincere, earnest eyes. A hand crept around the back of his neck and pulled his head down with gentle yet firm pressure.

Their lips touched lightly, almost chastely, pressed against each other before opening automatically, just barely, a thin line, and when their tongues touched for the first time, Sherlock felt a tingling sensation that started there and spread throughout his whole body. He moaned unconsciously and opened his mouth a little further. He suckled on John's lower lip and lured him in, lured his tongue, invited him to explore, to taste, to caress. And John succumbed to the temptation, crowded his tongue in between Sherlock's lips, probed, looted, plundered, stole his breath and made his knees go weak.

Sherlock remembered what that devious tongue had been capable of doing to other parts of his anatomy, and clung even closer to John. He felt the strong, muscular arms of the former soldier around his chest, and all of a sudden everything else fell away. The pain, the emotional distress, all of his guilt... the kiss swept everything away. Erased it and healed it until Sherlock couldn't tell whose heart he felt beating so wildly in his ribcage … John's … or his own … but it didn't really matter. John had always been his heart.

Now it was John who lured him in, who played with him and tested how compliant he could be, teased him and drew him out, and Sherlock let his desire run wild, pitted his tongue against John's, fought and danced with it, sucked on it gently and felt John's groans vibrating through his entire body.

One of John's hands found its way into Sherlock's dark curls, pulled on them, bent his head back, exposed his throat, lifted his mouth from Sherlock's hungry lips and pressed a hot, greedy, very wet kiss onto the white skin of Sherlock's neck. Then they broke apart somewhat reluctantly, breathing heavily.

"That was... wow," John said softly.

"Yes, it was," Sherlock agreed, licking his lips. "Is that going to leave another mark?" He felt his neck.

"No... not yet... do you want one? Anderson would keel over dead." John grinned.

"Then of course I want one!" Sherlock grinned too.

"Why didn't you ever let me kiss you? Were you afraid I'd notice the silicon pads in your cheeks?" John asked, becoming suddenly thoughtful.

"Yes... that too. But the main reason..." Sherlock paused for a moment before continuing more quietly, "You wouldn't have been kissing me. It would have been Pierre … and that would have broken my heart. I couldn't let you kiss him."

"We're really doing this all backwards," John said and grinned. "Hopeless." He shook his head.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, slightly confused.

"Well... we've done all the dirtiest things already... and we've only got around to our first kiss now. It usually goes the other way round."

A cheeky smile appeared on Sherlock's lips.

"Oh no... it's all in the right order. We have the kiss behind us … and the naughty things yet to come."

"But Sherlock... that's nonsense!" John protested. "We've already..."

"No," Sherlock interrupted him. "You and Pierre... not you and I. I'm not like Pierre."

"You aren't?" John asked, swallowing hard.

"Of course not," Sherlock answered, slightly insulted. "Do you even know how hard it was for me not to kiss you while we were doing those things? Or not to say anything?"

"It would have given you away if you'd said anything?" John asked, perplexed.

"Do you think I would have been able to maintain that unpleasantly high-pitched voice while you were doing … what you did? Exactly. I decided it was better not to say anything at all, and not to make any other noises..."

"Does that mean you're loud in bed?"

"We should probably buy Mrs Hudson some earplugs," Sherlock answered as if giving it serious consideration. "Yes - I'm loud. Quite loud. And I talk the whole time. I hope that doesn't bother you."

"God!" was John's only answer. "Bother me? No... that's good. Very good, in fact. Do you know, there were times when I thought I could come just from listening to you."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "We could make an experiment out of it." His eyes were shining. "Call us a taxi. I'll use the time to refresh my dirty talk vocabulary."

"You're not serious," John said hoarsely, watching with disbelieving eyes as Sherlock took out his mobile and started surfing the internet.

"Problem?"

"Sherlock, that was just a figure of speech … that can't possibly really work," John pointed out.

Sherlock was at his side in less than a second, in front of him, surrounding him, kissing him deeply.

"Once I have you at home in my bed, I'm finally going to put those handcuffs I lifted from Lestrade a while ago to good use. I'll cuff you to the bed … naked … and then I'll take off my clothes while you watch... going very slowly. And while I tell you in great detail how much my body desires you, how much it arouses me to see your arousal... I'll touch myself and you'll have to watch... I'll tell you exactly what it feels like, how much I want it to be your hands that bring me to ecstasy..."

"Jesus..." John whimpered. Sherlock gave the area between John's legs a thorough inspection and saw the large bulge that was already outlined there.

"There you are... it does work," Sherlock grinned. "And now, will you call us a taxi?"

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

Later... in the middle of the night... Sherlock Holmes snuck quietly out of his bedroom so as not to awaken his lover.

He slipped into the kitchen - not having bothered to put on any clothes - and, touched by rare emotion, looked at the little bouquet of forget-me-nots slowly wilting in a water glass because they didn't have a vase.

He touched the tender petals with gentle fingers then carefully plucked out a single stem and took it to the living room. He took a single sheet of tissue paper out of a drawer and folded it down the middle. He then laid the forget-me-not into the fold. He went to the bookcase and pulled down one of the volumes. He opened the book to a certain page and placed the paper with the flower inside.

Deep fondness lay in his gaze as he closed the book again, put it back in its place, and slipped back into bed, all unnoticed. Back to the man he belonged to. Now and for all time.

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

THE END

End notes: There. That's it. *sigh* Kind of sad in a way. But that's always the way it is when something ends. But: it's not the end of the world, just the end of the story. I'll be back!