She remains silent, eyes boring into the cane with a look of sadness, before she glances up with fierce determination. Surely something needs to be stirred. That makes Sherlock stop and he has to brace his arm against the doorframe of the kitchen to keep himself upright against the onslaught of John. Edison appears at his side and licks his hand. He was definitely at the christening and paying attention, despite what everyone thinks.
Your mother put her foot down and named you after herself. A nervous habit clearly. Not his. He curses and she immediately grabs his wrist and leads him over to the sink, turning on the cold water and sticking his palm beneath it.
Edison whines at his side and he reaches down with his uninjured hand and placates him as he stares at the girl - young woman - next to him, whose first instinct was to make the situation right. He can hear himself breathing over the faucet, watching blindly as she turns the water off and gently pats his palm dry with a paper towel. He points a shaking finger to the cabinet under the sink and she immediately pulls it out and unwraps some gauze.
This caring. This healing. Three years after Sherlock had moved to Sussex. Over six years after they had last seen each other. And I know he does. She is undeterred. Sherlock, do you love him? He collapses into the nearby chair and buries his head in his hands, fingers raking through his silvering curls. He just - he needs to see you. A letter perhaps. A tear tracks down her face as she kneels on the floor beside his chair. This was saved in his drafts, dated nearly ten years ago.
His hands shake as he unfolds the paper and smooths it against his lap, trying to focus on the words that John Watson wrote:. Sherlock closes his eyes as his own tear splashes on his cheek.
He keeps reading, though, because he promised he would. Still on the floor. Still by his side. Still so like her father. He swallows and smooths the paper once more, smearing some of the ink that had blurred from his tears.
Plain text with limited HTML? Main Content While we've done our best to make the core functionality of this site accessible without javascript, it will work better with it enabled. Get an Invitation. If Equal Affection Cannot Be blueink3 Summary: Sherlock fled London a couple of years after John left him in hospital with nothing but an old walking stick and a half-hearted goodbye.
Chapter 1 : If Equal Affection Cannot Be Summary: Sherlock fled London a couple of years after John left him in hospital with nothing but an old walking stick and a half-hearted goodbye. Chapter Text He wakes to birds singing instead of bins rattling these days, with soft sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains Mrs. Liven it up a little. Sally Donovan Got a weird one for you. How so? Send photos.
Will research. Quite the opposite, Detective Inspector. He opens the cabinets and is greeted with a sack of onions and not much else. London is no longer that for him. McGregor greets cheerily as the bell over the door trills.
A dozen. Or Sherlock is just seeing things. He shakes his head and begins to close the door. No more honey for her. I got your mother killed. John would beg to differ, his mind unhelpfully supplies. She cocks her head. His heart sticks in his throat as she puts the mobile to her ear and listens to it ring. Why is it such a big deal? Dad never said. Like father, like daughter. Her hand covers his on the counter and holds on tight.
Not just any person, though. Watsons apparently have that effect on him. Should be a Brunello. Bit not good. You were best friends. Even the damn papers saw it. But then he frowns. And everything just - stops. She glances up at him briefly before focusing back on his hand and swallowing. I made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake. He is completely numb. Outside, Sherlock presses John into the white stone wall and throws a cup of cold water on his face.
The cold blast catapults John into the current moment. He wants it. Sherlock speaks softly, but deliberately. His face is calm, and it tells John nothing. Sherlock growls, dropping the blank facade. When Sherlock turns back, his eyes are dark, and his tone is unforgiving. He grabs John by the lapels. John pushes Sherlock off of him and wordlessly walks into the church and down to the second row, where Mrs.
Hudson is sitting with Rosie and the pram. John tries not to make a fuss with Rosie as he straps her in, unsuccessfully.
After his outburst just minutes earlier, the funeral attendees seem to find John a more interesting spectacle than the pastor. Hudson shoots them all dirty looks. The walk to Baker Street is tense. He wants to punch Harry. He wants to hug Clara. He wants to drown himself in whiskey. He wants to kiss Sherlock. God, he wants to kiss Sherlock. Sherlock is silent now, pushing the pram and looking pointedly forward. He imagines Sherlock completely undone, angry and human. A few blocks later they arrive at Baker Street.
Rosie is sound asleep, clutching her hedgehog. John slumps against the front door as Sherlock takes Rosie inside to put her down. He watches people walk by. They give him a dirty look and start walking faster down the pavement. He sounds exhausted.
John bounds up the stairs, eager for this fight. He strides confidently into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. John follows him into the kitchen. It smells like tea and chemicals, and John wishes all his clothes would smell like this again. When Sherlock turns around to face him, John puts his arms on either side of him, effectively pinning Sherlock to the counter.
John feels himself getting hard. He wonders if Sherlock can feel it. You need to sleep. John looks up at Sherlock with the most sincere expression he can muster. What I said, about Harry being right.
I love you. Your judgment is severely compromised, clearly. The kettle boils. Sherlock busies himself with making the tea. His fingers are long and delicate, the ones on his left hand with slight, permanent indents from the violin. John aches to feel them on his body, in his mouth. His scattered energy has channeled into pure arousal.
John sips. It hurts in a familiar way. John runs his tongue over his bottom lip and stares, open and wanting, at Sherlock's mouth. It parts. John smiles victoriously. Sherlock lets out a shaky breath, and the atmosphere shifts. Sherlock wants this, too.
John sets the cup beside him on the counter, not breaking eye contact. Sherlock braces himself on the counter, bringing their chests together. He smells like B, but concentrated with an added mix of soap and sweat and cigarettes. Christ , he wants to hear that again. He rolls his hips once, twice more, and Sherlock effectively collapses into him.
John can feel him growing harder. John needs this release, fast and hard. Sherlock must know what John needs- he always knows. And he always gives. He uses the momentum to flip them around so that Sherlock is backed up against the kitchen counter. John grinds into him, licking at his neck. He needs more , and he wants it quickly. Sherlock nods and lets out a moan that makes John shiver.
It gives John a rush, confirming Sherlock is as interested in the proceedings as he is. The touch is fuck, good, but not enough. John kisses Sherlock again, open-mouthed. John takes them both in his hand and squeezes. John strokes, hard and fast, exactly how he needs this. He has an instinctual urge to mark him. His orgasm is a needed, powerful release. John wakes at an unknown hour feeling groggy and hungover, despite his lack of a drink for the last few days.
His head throbs, and his body aches. He feels soft, pillowy sheets on the exposed skin on his chest, arms and legs that feel unfamiliar, but smell achingly so known. The room is dark and quiet, but through the window, soft yellow light from the streetlamp streaks the curtains. John groans, and takes the paracetamol. He closes his eyes and tries to listen for Sherlock puttering in the kitchen, or playing violin. This is all his fault. And Sherlock had been angry about it, surely.
Certainly not hurried handjobs in B resulting in a spectacular release. How had things escalated so quickly? And then, the worst part was his full-on breakdown afterwards. He lost all control and felt the impact of everything from the last week, the last few months, the last few years manifest itself in chest-heaving sobs.
He vaguely remembers Sherlock stripping him completely naked, giving him a pair of boxers, and putting him to bed. He moves the sheet to look down, and confirms this. In the end, his stomach wins out. He strides into the kitchen to find his phone on the counter, next to his barely touched cup of tea. You ok, mate? Saw the video on Twitter. About time, really. Bloody awful circumstances, though. Sorry to hear about your sister.
Hello, Dr. This is Anita Stimson, celebrity news correspondent at the Daily Mail. His heart is beating out of his chest. Everyone knows. Fuck , everyone knows. And the flat is empty. Where the hell is Sherlock? Oh, god.
This is it, then. He puts his phone back on the counter, wishing he could just toss it in the bin. He settles himself in his chair, popping cashew after cashew into his mouth. John lets him, succumbing to the comfort of the touch, to the relief of it, of Sherlock still wanting to touch him like this. Sherlock continues his massage.
That you were angry. Hudson made lentil soup. Watson had more of it on her face than in her stomach, but she seemed to like it, nonetheless. I read the insect book to her, the one Molly bought her, with the rhyming scavenger hunt. She seems to enjoy the desert landscape page most. John can read the question in that. Disturbing me, I mean.
John misses the contact immediately. Sherlock stares hard at their hands, concentrating. I was a complete dick at the funeral, and after.
Sherlock takes his hand away and ties his dressing gown tighter around his waist. John desperately wants to wrap his arm around those narrow hips, down his thighs, feel the silky material there, but They need to talk, first.
Sherlock considers. Sherlock shifts next to him. And if that is the case, I was happy to give that to you. John resents this. He leans forward, aching to reach across the space between them. I still stand by everything I said, even if I should have said it all in private.
I hate to think I pressured you into anything- if you were only letting me- you know- because you think I needed it, I- Jesus. John squirms in his seat. The pure factuality of it pulls John from descending into a whirlpool of self-hatred. Warmth pools in his stomach. Sherlock rises again, coming to stand over John, the light from the window shrouding his dark figure in a soft glow. He extends a hand to John, who takes it, pulling Sherlock into his lap.
The detective grunts in surprise. Sherlock hums. The words wrap around John like a wool blanket. He sinks into the softness of them, finally able to relax in the relief, the comfort , of knowing that Sherlock loves him, too. John kisses him, more fire behind it now. A boy who is smirking, eyebrows raised knowingly, as if to say ' Yeah, you like what you see, don't you? Sherlock swallows hard, glancing downward to end the humiliation, when his mind finally clicks into place.
If that smirk was any indication, he's probably captain, all confident and sure of himself. New but not new to the team, probably having trained with them over summer and transferred here to join permanently. Sherlock thinks he remembers hearing something about the team needing 'shaping up.
Stupid stupid. Of course he's a rugby player. Sherlock takes an immediate step back, eyes darting behind the boy's head to the exit he should have taken in the first place. He's unable to find his voice. He opens one eye to see the boy has moved just to the side, away from the door, opening a path.
Sherlock looks from the door to the boy, who nods his head toward it. He hides out the rest of the day in the closet only the night janitors use. The one he uses sometimes to be away from all the people he doesn't speak to. As the final bell rings, Sherlock holds his breath for another thirty minutes before unfolding himself from the floor and slipping out into the empty hallway. He makes his way down the path behind the school. The one that leads a shortcut back to his house. He sneaks a peek at the rugby team practice, just to see if he can catch a glimpse at the boy who'd let him go.
And sure enough, that blond head is glimmering in the afternoon sun, short but strong body bound in stripes and shorts, matching socks pulled up to the knee, arms crossed in front of his chest.
He looks So Sherlock had been right. That still didn't answer the question of why the rugby team leader let the geek walk away from a planned pummeling. Sherlock can't decide if that makes him feel better or worse to put a name to the face he's been thinking about all day.
Do I make myself clear? Sherlock turns away, decidedly not mesmerized by the boy on the pitch. It's the first rugby game of the season and John Watson, as Sherlock has learned his entire name since that first day, is a fucking powerhouse.
Sherlock's body temperature skyrockets as he watches from his hiding place beneath the bleachers, peering out from around one of the beams. His head spins as he watches John's strong legs run circles around the rest of the players.
His heart falls to his stomach as the crowd chants John's name. John Watson is a Year 13, Sherlock has learned since their meeting. John moved here at the end of last school year. John has sparkling eyes and rides a Bonneville and has the love of all the girls in school. He seems obviously attractive. He seems quite smug. He seems like he should be boring.
At first glance, John Watson is everyone's man. John Watson is for public consumption. John Watson belongs to the team and the school and the crowd and the world. At second glance, John Watson is his own man. John Watson is not for public consumption.
John Watson belongs to no one. Sherlock would like to belong to John Watson. Sherlock would like that very much indeed. The final whistle blows, tearing Sherlock from his reverie, and he slips back into the shadows, going unnoticed as the crowd files out. He doesn't need anyone to see the nerdy boy with the giant glasses attending a social event that he certainly doesn't belong at.
He waits quietly, wrapping his coat tighter around him as the sun has long since faded away. Quiet settles upon the field and the roar of the cars and the patrons has calmed. Sherlock wiggles out from his crouch and turns to make his way home, marching into the open and across the field. He's startles, unable to stop the gasp from escaping his lips. A dark chuckle comes from behind him and Sherlock is frozen to the ground. The grass rustles with footsteps and then John Watson is standing in front of him, smirking that stupid, knowing smirk and Sherlock's breath catches.
Sherlock shakes his head because he definitely did think that and because he's never said a word to John Watson before. Sherlock swallows in response. Why he can't speak properly is far beyond him. He pushes at his glasses, a nervous habit he's developed since John bloody Watson has started attending his school. In all fairness, John is not giving Sherlock much to work with in terms of responding. What does one say to that? Yes, in fact, I'm the cleverest boy in school.
Deny it? No, I'm dumb as a rock. Which would make him seem cooler? The whimper that escapes Sherlock's lips is so humiliating he almost turns and runs in the opposite direction. John can only mean one thing. John only has one type of transportation. Sherlock musters a half-hearted glare. He steps around Sherlock and walks briskly back to the car park.
Sherlock stares after him, unsure of how to proceed. John unhooks the helmet from the bag slung around his shoulder filled with his rugby kit, and pushes it into Sherlock's shaky hands.
The involuntary shiver that runs through Sherlock is as unexpected as it is unwelcome. He needs to stop having these reactions. It's unfair the upper hand John already has on The shiver turns into a tremble as they near that gorgeous piece of machinery that has John Watson written all over it.
It's never been a thing for Sherlock, boys with bikes. Sherlock didn't really have a thing until John Watson arrived at school. Now Sherlock has a thing. John secures his bag on the back and swings his leg over the seat. Sherlock stops dead, still gripping the helmet.
John smirks. Sherlock glares and marches to the back, waiting until he's out of John's eyesight to shove the helmet over the chaos of his curly hair. It's far too large and falls to one side of his head and Sherlock glares upward for a moment before clipping it in place. Then he hesitates. Sherlock blows out a silent breath, mentally preparing for the first time touching John because that was inevitable in this situation. He climbs on clumsily, saddling as far back on the tiny seat as possible, which isn't far back at all.
John glances down behind him and laughs. Sherlock is so startled, he throws his arms around John's middle out of panic and he can feel more then hear John's laughter.
He's flush against John's warm back and he can feel his own body curving gently to fit just so around this strong athlete. He decides he can get away with it, seeing as there really isn't anywhere else he can go. John back pedals out of the thin parking spot and turns the bars and then they're off, flying out of the car park and on to the deserted street. Sherlock can feel the wind pounding against them and watches John's blond hair fuss in the whirl of the air. He wants to stick his nose in that golden fringe and inhale, but resists.
He decides instead to peek over John's shoulder, watching as the road seems to zoom by underneath them, the lights of the street disappearing within seconds of coming into view. His eyes begin to water a bit but he blinks back the moisture, heart pounding too hard to want to focus on anything else. It's thrilling, this ride with this boy in the night.
Sherlock truly never understood why someone would drive such an impractical vehicle until right this very moment. They ride, Sherlock tapping John's arm when he needs to take a right or a left, but otherwise, there is no communication.
Only the sounds of the powerful engine in the silent night. It's only when they pull up to Sherlock's house that he realizes his chin is hooked over John's shoulder. He pulls back immediately as the bike falls silent, hands flying to the hook under his chin, unbuckling it and pulling the helmet off quickly. He all but throws it at John and attempts to dismount gracefully, unaware that his legs are practically jelly from squeezing his thighs.
Something he wasn't aware he was doing. John catches his elbow as he's on his way to toppling over, pulling him up to his feet again and laughing. Sherlock freezes. He doesn't think anyone has ever used the word pretty and his name in the same sentence before tonight. John's smirk tells him he's blushing. He ducks his head and mumbles "Thank you for the ride. Strong fingers are in his hair and he doesn't move, fighting an urge to close his eyes and push into the touch. He sees John's feet move into his view of the ground and suddenly hot breath is in his ear.
Sherlock stays very still, certain the tiny gasp he just heard did not come from his mouth. John's hands glide down the back of his neck and then are gone. Sherlock kneels, gathering the rather heavy textbooks he'd been balancing in his arms, panic swelling as the students around him continue to walk to class, trampling all over his work.
Heels stomp his hands and legs bump his shoulders and Sherlock grits his teeth, scrambling to gather his things. He reaches for another page that had gone flying, when a hand lays over his on top of the paper and a body is suddenly crouching down next to him. John chuckles softly and moves, gathering up the remaining pages and sliding them into one of Sherlock's books.
But if John Watson didn't just plant a kiss in his hair, then Sherlock definitely doesn't need two attempts to stand up on trembling legs. He turns around. John laughs and takes a step closer.
He takes another step and leans in only inches from Sherlock's ear. Sherlock finds himself perched on the path, eyes locked on sandy blond hair before he's fully thought it through. He doesn't know what it means when he sees John leaning against a locker, propped up on one arm as the cheerleading captain Mary Morstan twirls a lock of hair around her finger and smiles shyly at him. John grins that wolfish grin he has, the one that reaches his eyes and gives them an extra shimmer.
The one that says ' I could do such naughty things to you if I were so inclined. The one that when topped off with a wink makes Sherlock's knees shudder. And it hurts. So much, it hurts. It hurts to think John is giving his full attention to anyone else. Especially when all Sherlock's attention has been on John. How could he be so stupid? How could he not know it was all just a game?
Just a tease. Just having a laugh. Get the geek all riled up. Make him think he's special. Make him think someone wants him.
Which, for the most part, he is. But he wants to be physically alone. He wants a moment to compose himself, shake it off and erase every shared moment he's had with John Watson. He wipes shameful tears from his eyes and breathes deep in an attempt to calm himself, glasses fogging with moisture and hot breath. And dread turns into humiliation in the blink of an eye as a foggy, blurred John Watson looks at him from the doorway.
Sherlock stares because apparently that's all Sherlock can do when in the presence of the rugby captain. And then he remembers the state he's in and drops his head back to his knees trying unsuccessfully to hide.
The door closes and Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief. Apparently, his beating will be for another day. At least he won't already be in tears when it starts. Hands are fisting in the front of his shirt and Sherlock is abruptly hauled to his feet. He coughs out a surprised gasp and blinks to see John Watson's narrowed eyes staring him down.
John nods, then gingerly removes the thick black rims from Sherlock's face. He places them on the shelf next to them. Then turns back to him. More tears spill over his cheeks and Sherlock closes his eyes and drops his head, unable to look at the boy who caused these feelings in him. He shakes his head. Something passes over John's face and then his features harden. And then his hand moves from Sherlock's chin to the back of his head and then his lips are pressing to Sherlock's and Sherlock's brain short-circuits.
Sherlock clings desperately to the rugby captain, opening his mouth and inviting that tongue that tastes like peppermint tea and honey in, gasping loudly, forgetting about everything else in the world. Fingers wrap around his wrists and suddenly Sherlock's hands are pushed up over his head against the wall, the pressure in his wrists increasing as he struggles instinctually against the restraint. Sherlock whimpers. His head is spinning, his heart is thumping and he can't catch his breath.
He's surrounded by everything that is John, his scent and his strength and his body sealed against Sherlock's. John is dominating him like he dominates the field and Sherlock is fucking reveling in it. John shifts his hips and Sherlock lets out a guttural cry as something stirs deep in his abdomen. Sherlock nods frantically, anything John. Just please , do that again.
John rolls his hips and Sherlock is panting heavily, never knowing anything could feel this good. John holds him down, arms still bound over his head and Sherlock pushes back and takes it. Sherlock is gasping for air, grinding his pelvis back against John's, the friction making his body thrum.
He drops his head forward, shaking, and John captures his lips. And Sherlock does, tossing his head back, smacking it hard against the wall as he's suddenly spilling thickly into his pants, whimpering and squeezing his eyes closed. Sherlock's brain restarts and he's aware enough to gape.
Sherlock can see the smirk playing on his lips. John bursts out laughing. He scrambles for his glasses to see John's face. Sherlock shuffles his feet and adjusts the frames on his face, looking anywhere but at the blond boy. Like…after school or something? It's sentimental, but Sherlock can't be arsed to care.
He feels light; elated even. Nothing can bring him down. He's sitting next to the path, the one that overlooks the rugby field, arms wrapped around his knees pressed to his chest as he stares starry-eyed at Captain Watson. What does John want to be when he grows up? What is John's family like? How did John decide to play rugby? Why did John move here? Sherlock wants to ask but he won't. No, he won't. He'll leave it alone for now. He'll stay in this little bubble for now.
Their little bubble. Their perfect, happy little bubble. John calls the team in, signaling the end of practice and Sherlock prepares to leave, wrapping his coat snuggly around him, hiding the incident from earlier. He tosses one last glance toward the field, one last look at that beautiful boy, only to see the cheerleaders making their way to the team.
He watches as Mary scoots as close to John as possible, clips on the helmet Sherlock had worn what seemed like years ago now, and melts her body around the captain.
Today, Sherlock will not dwell on Mary Morstan's arm linked in John Watson's as he passes them in the hallway. With all the effort of watching and then ignoring John Watson, Sherlock has barely noticed the rugby team has not bothered him once since the chase that first day of school. Sherlock holds the note to his heart for a beat, then slides it into his pocket. This note is special. This needs to be kept safe. John is impressive as usual, and tonight Sherlock can feel the crowd cheering his name in his bones.
Sherlock ignores the ache in his chest and instead focuses on the game he needs to win, much like his prize is currently doing. And after what could have been eternity, Sherlock is finally on the back of John's bike, cuddling close and breathing him in. They pull up to Sherlock's house and John puts on a sickeningly sweet smile for Sherlock's mother.
Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's easy to do since the next thing that rolls through him is panic. Granted, Sherlock had overlooked the fact to tell her in advance that he was having someone over. They walk through the house, Sherlock doing his best to remain interesting.
He needs to impress John. He needs to show him he's got things to offer. He needs to prove himself. One entire wall is stacked with books. And not novels and fun reads, but real heavy stuff like biomedical engineering and physiology. How had things escalated so quickly? And then, the worst part was his full-on breakdown afterwards. He lost all control and felt the impact of everything from the last week, the last few months, the last few years manifest itself in chest-heaving sobs.
He vaguely remembers Sherlock stripping him completely naked, giving him a pair of boxers, and putting him to bed. He moves the sheet to look down, and confirms this. In the end, his stomach wins out. He strides into the kitchen to find his phone on the counter, next to his barely touched cup of tea.
You ok, mate? Saw the video on Twitter. About time, really. Bloody awful circumstances, though. Sorry to hear about your sister. Hello, Dr. This is Anita Stimson, celebrity news correspondent at the Daily Mail.
His heart is beating out of his chest. Everyone knows. Fuck , everyone knows. And the flat is empty. Where the hell is Sherlock? Oh, god. This is it, then. He puts his phone back on the counter, wishing he could just toss it in the bin.
He settles himself in his chair, popping cashew after cashew into his mouth. John lets him, succumbing to the comfort of the touch, to the relief of it, of Sherlock still wanting to touch him like this.
Sherlock continues his massage. That you were angry. Hudson made lentil soup. Watson had more of it on her face than in her stomach, but she seemed to like it, nonetheless. I read the insect book to her, the one Molly bought her, with the rhyming scavenger hunt.
She seems to enjoy the desert landscape page most. John can read the question in that. Disturbing me, I mean. John misses the contact immediately. Sherlock stares hard at their hands, concentrating.
I was a complete dick at the funeral, and after. Sherlock takes his hand away and ties his dressing gown tighter around his waist. John desperately wants to wrap his arm around those narrow hips, down his thighs, feel the silky material there, but They need to talk, first. Sherlock considers. Sherlock shifts next to him. And if that is the case, I was happy to give that to you. John resents this. He leans forward, aching to reach across the space between them. I still stand by everything I said, even if I should have said it all in private.
I hate to think I pressured you into anything- if you were only letting me- you know- because you think I needed it, I- Jesus. John squirms in his seat. The pure factuality of it pulls John from descending into a whirlpool of self-hatred. Warmth pools in his stomach. Sherlock rises again, coming to stand over John, the light from the window shrouding his dark figure in a soft glow.
He extends a hand to John, who takes it, pulling Sherlock into his lap. The detective grunts in surprise. Sherlock hums. The words wrap around John like a wool blanket. He sinks into the softness of them, finally able to relax in the relief, the comfort , of knowing that Sherlock loves him, too.
John kisses him, more fire behind it now. Sherlock responds enthusiastically, shifting his hips slightly for more contact. When Sherlock only responds with a teasing roll of the hips, John pulls back, breathless. This past week. But I want to work for this. But god, he wants to try to be, with everything he has. Sherlock sees all of it. But you already are. Naughty boy. He is, he realizes.
The wave of fatigue hits him sharply, and he concedes. Just sleeping, then. Sherlock smirks and helps him up. John feels his heart beat quicken. John wakes early the next morning with a mouthful of curls. He shifts, and unsticks himself from the person in front of him- right. Yesterday afternoon and last night are hazy in his memory.
It takes him a minute to acclimate, and when he does, he realizes his mobile is buzzing on the nightstand. Damn thing has probably been going off all night. Better get it, then. Hudson sounds relieved. Hudson call up. Said she rang with no response. Sherlock is awake and sitting up, now, bare chest exposed and distracting.
Sherlock notices, of course, and quickly pulls the blanket in around him. You can send Clara up, though. She can wait in the sitting room. John kisses him on the forehead, and he seems slightly mollified. John hears steps in the sitting room and groans, wishing Clara had popped by just an hour or two later so he and Sherlock could have woken up properly. Sherlock glances toward his bedroom door and sniffs.
Chocolate croissants. The one with the fringe and the clear glasses. Sherlock jumps up off the bed and fetches a dressing gown from his dresser. Are they Calvin Klein? Conclusion: she slept somewhere else. John licks his lips, reminded of those thirty-six ways Sherlock wants him. Cam, I believe their name was, flirted with Clara from the start of the service, bringing up a story about a work dinner they attended a few years ago.
Clara was particularly susceptible to advances yesterday, having had such an emotional day. It was the perfect storm. She gives him a cheeky wave.
She rolls her eyes. John wants to kick Clara out and have Sherlock against the doorframe, but he does owe her this. He puts the kettle on. John takes Rosie from her cot upstairs, changes her nappy, and dresses both of them. He prepares sliced bananas and small pieces of peanut butter toast for her breakfast.
He, Clara, and Sherlock sip on tea and munch on chocolate croissants. He could be better. The pang of anxiety about all of his unread notifications hits him in the gut. A reporter called Stimson texted me for an interview. At this, Sherlock scoffs. People have been speculating for years. Let them talk. John hardly said anything scandalous. John smiles, agreeing.
Where he used to see Mary, he instead sees Harry. Sherlock stares back at him, dumbfounded. Clara smiles privately to herself. So he gets up from the couch, walks to Sherlock, leans over him, and does. Just a quick peck, but the rush of being able to do this now, anytime he likes, is heady. Clara shifts in her seat. She clears her throat.
John and Sherlock reluctantly break from their private moment. Sherlock settles back into his cool persona. John settles on the armrest. Sherlock scowls, setting his tea down with a clang. What the hell did he want? Sherlock looks vindicated. Sherlock pretends he hates the attention, but John sees right through it. He always knew Harry was financially comfortable- she was a lawyer, after all- but if Mycroft was getting involved, there has to be a feature of interest.
It would be like Harry to have a secret fortune stashed away, or an Italian villa being rented by mobsters. He could sell it, rent it-. I feel She anxiously chews on her plump bottom lip. He wants nothing to do with that flat. Sherlock is affronted. Please take it. Move in tonight, for all I care.
At the very least, I owe you this. Clara waves a hand dismissively. All I did was greet some old faces. Clara had always been humble, one of the things John liked about her, but this was a gross understatement. Her face contorts in confusion, until she glances to Sherlock, and smiles.
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