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John still didn't understand how Sherlock could remain so composed all the time. There he was, walking off of the plane, with his hands in his pockets, a smirk on his face, and a rolling smoothness to his steps, acting like he was sent away on exile every day. The closer he got, though, the more a genuine smile of his shone through. If Sherlock weren't Sherlock, John would've called it a bashful smile, one very few people got to see. It could light up his whole demeanour, and it was the kind of smile that could make a person's day. It was a smile John noticed was reserved for him.
"The game is never over," Sherlock said, extending his hand to shake John's.
John just stared at Sherlock's hand, flustered. He shook it slowly, after a very gauche pause, the roaring of airplanes taking off suddenly becoming overwhelming. His almost-loss left John's emotional barrier a bit shaken. He had gotten good at hiding his feelings from Sherlock, but in that moment, he just wanted Sherlock's gentle touch on his back, wanted to pull him close, clutching the back of Sherlock's coat in his fists. He wanted to know what Sherlock's coat felt like pressed against his face, and wanted to breathe in his scent of familiarity.
"The dream team! Back together again!" Mary said enthusiastically from beside John.
John pulled his hand away, and Sherlock gave him a tense smile before looking down at his shoes and putting his hands behind his back. He opened his mouth and took a breath to say something several times, but never did. He was like a mirage; he shouldn't have been there, but was, and he was glowing, the sun shining perfectly so as to highlight his all his best features. His hair was falling over his face, and John wanted to run his hands through it, permanently staining his hands with the ink of silky curls.
They must have spent centuries swimming in their silence, floating in the myriad of words left to say. The dense air between them was too deep, and left them drowning, gasping for the surface.
Mary's voice sounded years away. "What a day! You keep us on our toes, Sherlock, I need to catch my breath," she said, trying to lighten the mood.
"You can't seem to get rid of me," Sherlock responded, his gaze still downcast.
Mary gave a polite laugh, and aimed a pained smile at John. He just barely caught it in his peripheral vision, though, too busy staring intently at Sherlock, scrutinising his guarded expression.
Mary then cleared her throat, and said, "Well, I'm exhausted, but you two boys feel fee to head over to Baker Street, you really should. Don't be too late home, John." With a kiss on his cheek, and a clap to Sherlock's back, she was off.
After another long silence, Sherlock finally lifted his gaze, quirking a half smile. "End of Baker Street, there’s a good Chinese. Stays open ’til two," he said, earning a nostalgic smile from John in memory of his and Sherlock's first post-case dinner.
The ride to Baker Street was uncomfortable at best. Sherlock had dismissed the topic of Moriarty's return as soon as it was brought up, saying, 'Not enough information to start,' and nothing more. None of the other passengers had said anything else afterwards, either. The tense silence had them all a bit uneasy. The driver was a shockingly normal fellow, his lavish uniform incongruent with his unremarkable self. Mycroft was sat in the passenger seat, with his nose in the air, yet to show due emotion. Sherlock was sat behind his brother, staring out the window to his left, seemingly avoiding someone's gaze. John was staring the same way, at Sherlock's fidgeting fingers, wanting to reach out and still them. The dust in the air danced in the rays of the sun, and the sweet smell of summer in the countryside permeated memories of the day as they formed.
John felt more and more déjà vu as the car approached its destination. He almost paid the driver as he stepped out, remembering that paying the cabbie was always his responsibility. The easy turn of his key in the lock and the familiar creak of the 17 steps under his feet suffused reassurance throughout his body, even though his tread was heavy with the knowledge that 221B wasn't his home anymore. He knew that he didn't have unspoken ownership over his hook, and a nagging voice noted that the same went for his chair. He thought to himself, as he settled down in said chair, that it felt more like home than anywhere he and Mary would ever live.
"I would still have seen you, you know. Coaxed your exact whereabouts out of Mycroft and snuck over, or something," John said as Sherlock walked into the flat.
Sherlock froze as he hung his coat. "No you wouldn't have, it's too—"
"Of course I would've, Sherlock, I can handle a bit of danger. It would take a year or so, I'd have to wait until the baby—" he broke off, reality making him stumble over his words. "I'd have to wait. But you would have kept yourself alive for that long," he finished.
"I should probably mention, now it's not going to happen, that er… well, it was only going to be a six month mission," he said, flopping into his chair, flashing John a veneering smile, crossing his left ankle onto his right knee.
"Yeah, you said so, six months and then 'who knows,' innit?"
"Er, well..." It was strange to see Sherlock scrambling for the right words. "What I meant was that... I was— that was the end date, the one after which 'who knows' what happens, as people enjoy telling themselves. The, er... the final problem resolved," Sherlock continued, dancing around the fact that he had cheated death a third time.
John was stunned into a disbelieving silence, but he tried his best to keep composure anyway, petulantly refusing to crack before Sherlock did. "You mean to tell me that— Six bloody— That was it?" Sherlock gave him a quailing nod, playing with his fingers on his lap, his knees together, gaze set on his hands. "Jesus, Sherlock, you should've told me, I could've—"
"There was nothing you could do," Sherlock interrupted, "it was a legal decision, beyond both our control."
"Well, it would've been nice to know! Christ, Sherlock, all this because of Magnussen, I—"
"Yes, John, because he was threatening Mary to get to my brother, and you need her in your life. I knew what fate awaited me as soon as I had decided to shoot him, so it's not like it surprised me."
"How could you possibly have known, Sherlock?" John asked.
"Well, I had worked out that even if I was to be incarcerated, they couldn't keep me in any prison for very long, and if they did, we both know the hysteria I'm capable of wreaking, so I would be taken out before very long anyway" Sherlock paused to flash a smirk at John. "While it is an old practice, exile is the next logical option. The British government is moderately clever, so it was probable that they wouldn't leave my talents out of use. They would assign me to a task only someone such as I could accomplish. My brother had informed me of the mission on the evening of our visit to Appledore. It was he who indicated that it would prove fatal to me in six months," Sherlock continued. At John's indications of desire to respond, Sherlock pressed on, "No, let me finish. In the practice I have chosen, death is always a very real possibility at almost every turn. It doesn't frighten me, and Mary 'turned your life around,' as you so sentimentally put it, and need for such an assistance could arise again. You need her in your life because you're happiest around her, because she's what you want. You need her to—" he broke off, sighing. "To have and to hold, for better or for worse, and death just can't part you so soon," he said morosely. "I was fine with dying for your relationship to continue."
Feeling frustration overwhelming him, and doing a miserable job of concealing it, despite Sherlock's dejected tone, John responded, "Okay, but, Sherlock, don't you know that I would— That I need you, too? Are you— you're not really that oblivious! Sherlock, you have to have known that, why would you— why would you—"
"I would die for you because that's the way it's going to happen, John!" Sherlock snapped. "That's the way it's always going to happen! Even though it seems like an absurd idea in your mind... even though everything's changed, and you won't do the same for me anymore, I will always do anything to protect you. I can see it now: you, staring down the barrel of a life searching for thrill, and me stepping in front of you, perforated with everything you are to me, and I end up dying, but you end up safe, John. You need to outlive me, I need you to outlive me. John, while you might miss me in your life if we can maintain our friendship, I have nothing without you. Before you came into my life, I had no one who noticed when I went for days without eating or sleeping, no one who bothered with me at all. I act like it doesn't unnerve me, I act like it protects me, but I am so alone without you, and there's just— there's nothing for me. And I can't go back to that. So yes, I'm inevitably going to die for you. Maybe I'll even be lucky enough to die in your arms again."
John stared at him with shock and sadness and commiseration for a few moments before answering, and Sherlock stared right back, his silver eyes looking more tragically beautiful than ever without walls up. "Sherlock, I— don't I get a say in this? I'm not looking for a hero, Sherlock, I don't want that." He paused, clenching and releasing his fists, exhaling heavily, willing himself to keep his tone gentle. "Look, I just want my best friend to make it past 65, so don't play the hero, I don't want you to."
Sherlock responded with the saddest smile John had ever seen. He was chuckling despondently, he was blinking back tears that were obviously about to fall, and he was swallowing as John waited for him to answer. "You don't get it, do you? I'm no hero, I'm being selfish. I don't want to live without you, there's no use to me. You need to live a longer life than me. You're going to. The rest — my dying for you — that's just the narrative." Tears were starting to roll over Sherlock's cheekbones as he shrugged and looked away, nibbling on his left thumbnail.
John could feel a lump in his throat himself. "But you don't have to play along, Sherlock," he murmured, his voice cracking, staring at his hands.
Sherlock turned his head back around to face John wearing a softer version of the look he would use on people at the Yard when they missed everything of significance in a crime scene. "Yes, John, I do. I'm never going to be able to give you everything I want to, it's— it's really the least I can do, isn't it?" he explained softly.
John knew his eyes were red, but he hadn't cried yet. "I don't see how it's the narrative, though, I don't see why it's the only option," he said.
"Because it's all but written down, John, because it's carved into my skin," Sherlock cut in frustratedly, sounding as though he were reciting a hackneyed discourse. "I'm practically bleeding with it. It's inside my heart and it's pumping throughout my whole body. I just— one day, we're going to get stuck in a mess, and to you, it's once again going to be your death or mine." Sherlock paused to search John's countenance before continuing, "But not to me. No, because I want to I want to feel your heartbeat under my fingers, to know your breath on my skin, and so my life would be over either way." Sherlock was now sitting cross-legged in his chair, gaze set on his fidgeting hands.
John was flummoxed into the back of his seat, obviously totally unprepared for that response, a dozen supernovas exploding in his chest. He was scrambling for the right words, unable to find them written across Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, I— How would you feel if I died for you?"
"Ah, but you wouldn't, John. Not anymore, I don't think. That's something you'd only do for Mary, now. Do you still not get it?"
"No, Sherlock, I don't. I'm trying to understand, please just— just a quick recap will do."
"A recapitulation will probably not help you understand what I'm trying to tell you, but okay. You're in love with Mary, and Magnussen wanted to take that away from you, and I will take a bullet any day if it means you stay happy."
"But Sherlock, I won't be happy if—" John sighed, and realised that he had let a tear fall. "Remember what happened last time? The first time, that is, sorry."
"Yes, and I will never forgive myself for that, but you didn't have Mary then. There's no denying it, I now come second place in your eyes; she's all you need." Sherlock looked up from his hands to give John a crooked smile. Not the one he had reserved for him, but a genuine one nonetheless.
John held his gaze and sighed. "You're right. That woman, she completely changed my life. I was in such a bad place, and no one else, none of my friends made a difference. Then she came along and nothing was the same. She's carrying my daughter, and I care about the both of them. Quite a bit, too," he chuckled here, but stopped when he saw Sherlock's dejected smile swimming in tears, to continue, "She's my wife, of course I care about her, but I'll never love her never as much as I—" he changed his train of thought's track before he said something he shouldn't. "You'd never come second, Sherlock."
Sherlock's hands were shaking delicately, his breaths quivering as well. John had never seen him look as vulnerable as he did then. He looked so scared, so disconsolate, so innocent, and John wanted to pull him close until his tears stopped, wanted to whisper reassurances into his hair.
It didn't look like Sherlock was ready to reply, so John asked him, as delicately as possible, "I get why you would... you know. Why you would do that for me. Not that I agree with it, I just understand it. What aren't I grasping, then, what's left that I don't—"
"I love you," Sherlock said, raising his gaze. "John Watson, I'm in love with you. I have been for quite sometime, although I didn't realise until a while before... I went away. I love you with every thing I am, every breath I take. It's all yours, and it always has been, if you would have accepted it. I love you in a way that means that I'm only happy if you are, and that's what I was trying to tell you. I love you so much that I was willing to leave you, willing to die and to kill for you. I know I've no right to, and I know I'll never deserve you, but I also know I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to. I'm totally, unquenchably, irrepressibly, and irreversibly in love with you and I'm— I'm sorry."
Before John knew what he was doing, he was getting up from his chair slowly.
"John?" Sherlock mewled. His voice was so quiet that it barely registered as John crossed the seemingly eternal distance between their chairs.
"John, what are you doing?" Standing in front of Sherlock's chair, lost in his celestial eyes, John didn't have the resolve to reply.
He was leaning forward, his lips parted and his eyes closed. "John, please stop," Sherlock mumbled.
John froze. Sherlock was so close that he could feel his words against his skin, teasing him with their denotations. "I thought you— don't you want this?" John said, opening his eyes but not moving.
Sherlock let out a breathy chuckle. "Oh, more than anything, John… but not like this. Not out of pity. I don't want to ruin what you and Mary have more than I already—"
"Sherlock,"
"—not what you want, so I can't let you. I wanted our first kiss, if it were to happen, to—"
"Sherlock,"
"—I guess I had always dreamt of it being because of mutual... anyway, that's obviously not possible—"
"Sherlock!" He shouted, stopping Sherlock's ramble. John had never seen him look so panicked. "I love you too," he said.
Sherlock's was disarmed by those words, his breath hitching. John slotted his fingers into his curls and, feeling Sherlock melt into the touch, pressed his lips against Sherlock's.
It took a moment for Sherlock to respond, but when he did, he was gentle, treating John as though he were something precious. His hands trembled as they came to rest on John's back. John took Sherlock's soft bottom lip between his own, earning himself a soft whimper. Sherlock kept making irresistible little noises at the back of his throat as John kissed him with more and more fervour, tugging gently at his hair and shifting himself ever closer. Once John was sitting fully in Sherlock's chair, Sherlock was pulling him closer too, and it was all too much. Keeping his left hand on the back of Sherlock's neck and in his hair, John moved his right hand onto Sherlock's chest, feeling his accelerated heartbeat under his fingers. Sherlock was breathing harder and harder at his touch, and his still-trembling fingers started skimming up and down John's back slowly but urgently. He keened as John swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, and brushed his tongue over John's in return before allowing him entrance. He moaned as John's tongue explored every corner of his mouth, pulling him closer still so that their chests were pressed flush together. Sherlock tasted faintly like toothpaste, but also like laughter, adrenaline and something distinctly Sherlock. John pulled away for air briefly, and started kissing along Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock sucked in a shaky gasp as John kissed him behind his ear, and smiled when he was pulled back in for another kiss by his curls. John started breathing I love you's between kisses for all the times he should have said it before, and Sherlock had an audible reaction each time. He started sighing the same words back until they were both gasping for air. They pulled apart, keeping their foreheads pressed together, and their eyes closed. John was cupping Sherlock's jaw, running his thumb over a cheekbone every so often.
"I loved you before I ever met you, you know," John said, smiling.
They stayed like that the rest of the day, enjoying each other's company, whether in companionable silence or deep conversation. It wasn't until late, when they were sitting on the couch together, drinking tea with Sherlock's head on John's chest, that Sherlock brought up a dilemma that they had both been avoiding. "John... er... what— what about Mary?"
John took a sip before answering. "I don't really think I ever loved her the way I was supposed to That is, not romantically. I'll never love her in any way as much as I love you. I think she can tell, too. I think we wouldn't have lasted long anyway, not the way we were carrying on. Maybe the baby'll grow up hating me, but she'll understand one day. Mary is important to me, but she'll never be as important to me as you are. You taught me how to enjoy myself again, how to care. She may have turned everything around for me, but you brought me back to myself; she may have changed my life, but you are my life."
Sherlock blinked up at him, his eyes shining with surprise and unfettered admiration. "I never thought— I never realised that I meant that much to you," he said.
John smiled. "It was so easy for me to let you in, you know, it just came naturally. You were an unattainable force of… erudition, and I had feelings for you right from the start. But then I got to know the real you, the important things, and I realised I was in love." His gaze fluttered onto Sherlock's eyes just in time to see them dissolve into pools of pure adoration in a way John had never seen before.
Sherlock leaned up for a quick kiss before answering. "Stay here tonight. That— that is if— if it's not—"
"I'll text Mary," John said, smiling behind his phone.
As soon as John had finished, Sherlock got up and walked to his bedroom, leading John by the wrist. John sat down on the right side of Sherlock's bed, delighted about getting to sleep next to the man fumbling in his closet for pyjamas.
John couldn't help but lay back and admire Sherlock's body as he changed in front of him, all defined lines and angles superimposed on pale, touchable skin, streaked with scars from his years away. "You're perfect," John said.
Sherlock smiled at his feet, blushing as he adjusted his grey t-shirt. He fell dramatically onto the bed next to John, his flannel trousers wrinkling and rising to reveal toned calves. He placed extra pyjamas onto John's stomach. Looking up into John's eyes, he smiled. "You're breathtaking," he breathed.
John was glad about the excuse to look away, and changed quickly. The trouser hems fell past his toes and the t-shirt far past his hips, but John thought that he wouldn't have been more comfortable in anything else.
Sherlock was smiling at him as he turned around. "Especially breathtaking in my clothes, I might add," he said.
John settled back onto the bed. Sherlock curled around him, resting his head on John's chest, and John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's back, pulling him closer. Their legs tangled together naturally, and Sherlock sighed contentedly, his breath grazing John's chest over the t-shirt. One of his hands was rested gently on John's heart, and his curls were tickling John's neck pleasantly. They fit together like puzzle pieces. John was breathing in lungfuls of Sherlock's scent of stars mixed with his shampoo mixed with home. Both of their breathing was evening out.
"Are you falling asleep? Don't you usually, you know… not?" John drawled, already in a sleep-impaired state.
Sherlock yawned. "Hmm, no, I don't really. But it's easier tonight. It's my pleasure. Goodnight, John."
John smiled, letting his eyes dip closed, and falling asleep thinking of how beautiful the universe looked with the moon living in its skin, and feeling lucky to be holding it in his arms.