Chapter Text
They sat in companionable silence, both of them working on their own projects, in their own time. Sherlock had taken over the sofa, his cold case files and notes scattered around him, his empty tea cup and a plate of toast crumbs forgotten on the table in front of him.
John looked up from his armchair and watched Sherlock's face as he scratched notes onto the pages around him, his arm still trapped in its cast, his fingers awkward and stiff. John used to watch Sherlock like this, before he died, used to throw guarded glances that wouldn't be noticed, careful to look away before he was found out. Now he could stare, so he did. Sherlock was mostly oblivious, but every once in a while he would look up and catch John's eye, and for just a small moment he would seem surprised, then relieved, and then, when John smiled at him, he would appear extraordinarily pleased with himself.
John stayed in his usual seat near the fireplace, a small fire lit and glowing, and imagined that he might just self-combust from the gratefulness surging through him. The scene was so familiar, yet so new, so overwhelming in its gift of the ordinary. It was a tableau he hadn't let himself revisit in the two years he'd spent without Sherlock, two years with only his grief looking back at him from the other armchair, from the couch, from the kitchen. This was real.
He looked down at the blank notebook in his lap and he wished he could scoop out the core of what he felt and pour it all over the paper, could hand it over and say here, this is it, this is what I feel. I need to tell you this, I have pulled this out of me so that you can see and understand.
He didn't know how to do that, but he was trying. He licked his lips and tapped his pen, and he stared out the window, and at his hands, and at Sherlock and at a distant place on the rug. The words weren't in any of those places, so he closed his eyes and tilted his head back and looked inside. He listened to the flames licking at the log in the fireplace, and the scritch of Sherlock's pen, and he let himself drift until he found what he needed. He wrote slowly and thoughtfully.
Dear Sherlock,
I'm settling into the reality of the last few weeks. You're back. You're not dead. You are so very, very much alive. I don't know why that scared me so much, after wanting it for so long. Miracles should not be this frightening. No, I don't think it was your being alive that scared me. I think it was realizing that what we had always danced around was now placed solidly in our hands, waiting to be explored. No more playing. So yes, I think that scared me.
It reminded me of a time when I was a kid, maybe six or seven years old. Harry and I had been bugging our parents to take us to Adventure Island. We'd heard about the rides and roller coasters and we thought we'd die if we weren't allowed to go. So, one weekend our parents surprised us and packed us up in the car with a thermos of tea and a packet of Hob Nobs and we drove over to Southend-on-Sea. Harry and I were wound like springs, bouncing around in the car and making up songs about cotton candy and pirate ships and god knows what. I'm pretty sure our parents regretted their decision before we even left the house.
Anyway. We got there and stood in line for tickets, our anticipation growing exponentially with every minute we waited, and when we finally got in we sat down and tried to figure out what we wanted to do first. I thought we'd start small and work our way up to the bigger rides, but Harry was fearless, and wanted to jump right into the scariest stuff first.
Off we went to some roller coaster that was probably called the Death Trap of Hell or something similar. We stood in line for over an hour, shuffling forward inch by inch, watching the people coming down the exit ramp, most of them looking green and nauseated, clutching at each other like they'd been put through a blender. Harry's excitement continued to grow, but mine was beginning to dwindle. The death trap coaster loomed larger as we inched closer, the screams coming from the riders growing louder and louder. As we got to the entrance gate I saw someone come down the exit ramp, lean over the side, and vomit up an awful lot of beans and toast.
You know where this is going. We got to the front of the line, the attendants directed us to our seats, and I froze. Couldn't go on the fucking thing. Couldn't do it. Harry begged me, then teased me, and I stood there to the side and let her go and then went back down and found my parents and that was it, the rest of the day was ruined for me. Harry went on it three times.
Of course I regretted my decision, spent days kicking myself and feeling like a complete and utter coward. Told myself I'd never back down from whatever scared me, not ever again. And for the most part, I haven't backed down. You say "could be dangerous" and I come running, right? But still. This, you coming back, has been like standing there under that looming roller coaster, wondering what the hell I'd been thinking. How could I ever live up to you? How could I ever be enough to keep you? To live up to what both of our expectations may have been all these years? What if I had imagined it all?
Well, to hell with all that. I'm not backing down. I'm not walking away. I'd have given years of my own life to get you back and have another chance, and here you are, and I don't even have to give up anything. So yeah, it's not a fairy tale and I'm sure we'll have our very own roller coaster to figure out, but I wouldn't walk away from this now for anything in the world.
I'm going to end this now, and make you stop working, make you go back to bed and rest. Might kiss you a bit, too.
Yours,
John
John tore the sheets of paper loose from his spiral-bound notebook and folded them over once, then again. He wrote SHERLOCK on the front in his efficient, block letters, and tapped the corner of his letter against his lower lip as he watched Sherlock run his hands through his hair and sigh over something in the file on his lap.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock was hard to distract now, completely caught up in the puzzle in front of him, searching for the inevitable piece to pull it all together. John crossed the room and knelt to the side of Sherlock's legs, ran his hand up a shin, cupped his hand around a bony knee.
"Hey, you in there?"
Sherlock peered down at him, huffed out a sigh that ruffled the hair up and out of his eyes, and smiled.
"Indeed I am, John."
"Making any progress?"
Sherlock waved a hand around him, gesturing at the seemingly random piles of files and paperwork that surrounded him.
"Actually, yes. I went through this first batch and pulled out what appeared to be the most straightforward of them. Of those seven, I've solved three. Really, it's amazing to me that anyone who calls him or herself a detective could miss what is right here in these files. The photographs from the crime scenes might as well be neon signs that say the bank manager did it, or she was not his legitimate child, or go look in the garden shed. It's a bit ridiculous. I hope to finish the other four this afternoon --"
John waited for Sherlock to take a breath before interrupting, knowing that solving four more cold cases was doable, but too much right now, too much even for brilliant, fantastic Sherlock.
"Hold on. Wait a minute. You need to stop for a bit, yeah? Take your meds, stretch, see how you feel. I'd like you to rest, maybe take a nap. You can finish the other four later, okay?"
Sherlock tapped his fingers on the file in his lap as if considering, then turned toward John and sighed.
"What's that?"
John followed Sherlock's eyes to the letter folded in his hand, looked back up and smiled.
"It's the letter I said I was going to write."
"Is it for me?"
"It is."
"You're not going to give it to me until I stop working and do what you want, are you?"
"Clever man."
Sherlock closed the folder and set it to the side, stretched his arms up above his head and arched his back, growled out a yawn. John stood and held out a hand, pulled him up from the sofa and tentatively wrapped his arms around Sherlock's scrawny waist, careful not to squeeze too hard. He mused that something could seem so natural and so novel at the same time. He half expected Sherlock - the old Sherlock - to pull out of the embrace, balking at the intimacy, but this new Sherlock stayed in John's arms, even leaned into him a bit.
"How do you feel?"
"Tired. I hate how tired I am."
"You're still recovering. It's going to take a while. Do you want to take a walk, get some air?"
"No. I want to go to bed with your letter. And you. Will you come sleep with me?"
"Yeah, of course. You go ahead, I'll get your meds and a glass of water."
Sherlock disentangled himself and padded down the hallway to the bathroom, dressing gown swirling around his calves, and John headed to the kitchen. He found a clean glass and pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, filled it, drank it down, then filled it again for Sherlock. He smiled to himself. A nap with Sherlock. John and Sherlock, in bed, napping. Or not. In bed. Yes.
He carried the glass of water and vials of pills into the bedroom, stood in the doorway and watched Sherlock's eyes fly over the pages of John's letter, top to bottom, top to bottom. Sherlock sighed, refolded the letter, closed his eyes. He rested his head against the headboard, eyes still closed, and smiled, patted the bed next to him.
"John. Your roller coaster awaits."
John could sense the blush blooming across his chest and up his neck. He licked his lips and crossed the room, stopping at Sherlock's side and putting the glass of water and medicine on the night stand before walking around to the other side and pulling off his jumper.
"Take your medicine. No medicine, no roller coaster."
He unsnapped his jeans and wriggled them off, tossing them onto the bottom of the bed with his jumper. He and Sherlock had been in various states of undress in front of each other before, before breakfasts and showers, after cases and injuries, even as recently as that morning, but now he was aware of Sherlock watching him, and he sensed that the simple act of pulling off his jeans was no longer simple, that it had become something bigger, something weighty with curiosity and anticipation. Sherlock was actively seeing him now, taking him in. John felt his flaws and imperfections jumping off his flesh, red flags waving under Sherlock's inspection.
He turned back toward the bed, stood in his vest and pants, hands on his hips, and returned Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock didn't look away. He blinked, inhaled, then said, "I like the way you look, John. I always have. There's nothing about your body that I don't like. You must know that."
John smiled and shook his head, temporarily caught off guard by Sherlock deducing what he'd been thinking. He crawled onto the bed and slipped under the covers, sidled over to Sherlock and relaxed against the pillows. With every movement there was an undercurrent of thought competing for his attention. He nudged a knee against Sherlock's thigh (I'm in bed with Sherlock), reached an arm over his waist (so warm, how is he so warm?), tugged Sherlock down and over so that his head was on John's shoulder (god, the scent of him), ran his fingers through Sherlock's still-too-long hair (I want him).
Sherlock pressed himself against the side of John's body and let his forearm rest on his belly, hooked his calf over John's shin and slid his leg up and down in a slow glide. Sherlock's breath was warm on his chest, his fingers slowly stroking John's wrist. John pressed his mouth against the top of Sherlock's head and inhaled, kissed against the long curls. He ran the tips of his fingers up and down Sherlock's spine, circled his sacrum, repeated the same path again and again. He felt Sherlock tug at the hem of his undershirt, felt his long fingers skim along his ribs, circle a nipple, trail down his sternum.
When Sherlock tilted his head up it was the most natural thing in the world to lean down and meet him, to press against his warm mouth and nudge their noses together until the angle was perfect, and their tongues could meet between their parted lips. It was more intimate than sexual, more always than new. The kisses were slow and sliding, and their hands explored and stroked and learned a terrain long observed but never chartered. Over the passing of minutes they shifted and leaned, realigning until they were side by side, eye to eye and mouth to mouth. Sherlock's hand trailed down John's hip and over his thigh, then back up, his thumb coming to rest in the crease of his groin.
John let out a small sigh and pulled back enough to whisper against Sherlock's cheek, "This isn't napping. We are really, really, not napping."
Sherlock grinned and leaned in again, lightly brushing his lips against John’s temple.
"Tell me to stop, John, and I will."
"Don't you dare," John exhaled, craning his head to reach Sherlock's mouth.
And with that, Sherlock shifted his hand, extended his index finger, and trailed it lazily up John's erection from root to tip. John stopped kissing, let his mouth fall open, and groaned. He felt his whole body constrict under that touch and the resulting lack of oxygen in his lungs. The only noise in the room was his sharp inhalation and the rustle of the sheets as he pushed one foot against the mattress to gain traction and push into the pressure of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock responded in kind, shifting up on his elbow and laying himself partially on top of John, thrusting so that his own erection pressed into the side of John's upper thigh.
"You..." he rumbled into the space behind John's jaw, “tell me you want this."
"You know I do, Sherlock. How could you not know?"
"Tell me," he said, voice low and pleading. "I want to hear you say it."
John reached down and slipped a hand into Sherlock's pajama bottoms, cupping as much of Sherlock's perfect arse as he could, squeezing with his fingers and caressing with his thumb. He pressed his mouth to Sherlock's throat and sucked, hard, then drew back and grabbed a fistful of hair, pulled them together again and whispered into the corner of Sherlock's mouth, "I want this. I want you. I think I always have, must have done."
Sherlock nodded and sighed before nipping at John's lower lip with his teeth. He ran the tip of his nose up and down John's, a gesture of affection and want.
"What about you, Sherlock? What do you want?”
Sherlock’s voice was a whisper against John’s jaw, a tentative plea for an absolution already given.
"You. Always you. John, I need to know that you forgive me for leaving you. I need to know that you understand why I had to do it."
John pulled back to look at Sherlock, expecting to see challenge in those extraordinary eyes, and so found himself caught off guard by the welling tears and imploring expression on his face. He traced Sherlock's eyebrows and cheekbones, his lips and chin with a tender touch. He held his gaze and began to speak.
"Sherlock Holmes, you brilliant, amazing, dangerous, incredible, stupid man. Listen to me. Whatever you have done, I know, I know, that you did it for me, with no regard whatsoever for your own life. One day you are going to tell me everything, from start to finish, so that it can be our story, yeah? Now you've come home, and that is a gift that I will thank you for every day for the rest of our lives. I have nothing to forgive you for. We are here, right now, because of your courage. How could I hold that against you?"
They fell quiet then, holding on to each other, the weight and press of their bodies a silent pact. John let the moment settle around them, held in place by its own gravitas, and when John leaned in to claim Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock met him with a passion fueled by trust, and John felt any last insecurity crumble away, forgotten.
The rush to consume and possess came quickly then, their bodies working to communicate everything, all of it, as if to bind their declarations through physical connection. John tugged Sherlock's shirt up and over his head, then wrestled with his own while Sherlock quickly divested them of their pants, ankles temporarily bound until he could kick them off and to the side. Sherlock rolled heavily on top of John, his hair hanging in a wavy curtain around them, his hips settling between John’s spreading thighs while his cock brushed insistently against John's inner thigh.
“Up, shift up,” John groaned, reaching down to grasp Sherlock’s cock, aligning them, pressing them together. The thought of them, glans to glans, slick with fluid, sent a shudder through him.
Sherlock slid up, wrapped his forearms under John's shoulders, arched his neck above John’s open mouth, and thrust hard into John’s waiting fist. The points of contact between them buzzed with arousal - hip to hip, belly to belly, chest to chest, but the feel of their thick erections pressed together was overwhelming. Soft, hot skin gliding over the rigid tissue underneath, their pre-cum mixing as it leaked and spread, the sound of slick slapping - it was everything they had been inching toward, before the jump, wrapped together in John's tight palm.
They filled the room with the sounds of their lovemaking, needy and raw. John couldn't have imagined that Sherlock, with his deep, crooning voice, could keen, but Sherlock was keening, throaty and frantic. It echoed through his own desire, pulled him closer to the edge, and had he been more aware, he would have heard himself answering back with half-formed words and phrases, bits of oh fuck please, god you, so good, going to, nearly, god yes, so close, oh oh oh sherl -- and then it was on him, his entire body going rigid, muscles contracting, every bit of focus bearing down on the climax ripping through him, between them, for them.
John's hand stilled as he orgasmed, warmth spilling out onto shivering skin, and then he felt Sherlock tremble, heard him pant please, John. He came back to himself, adjusted his grip on Sherlock's flesh, and worked him with fast, tight, wet tugs. The curve of his thumb caught on the corona with each pass, and soon Sherlock, body now arching up and away from John, swallowed down a choking grunt and began coming in sharp waves, the pulses gradually dwindling until he could lower himself back down onto John's chest, and shake in his arms.
They were there, at that place they were always traveling to, years apart or not. They were there.