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Later, John won’t remember what song was playing, only that it is loud and enjoyable, not a favourite, but good getting-things-done music.
Later, he won’t remember how long it takes, how many songs, before Sherlock joins him in his (again) room at 221B, old pajama bottoms and a ratty t-shirt hanging from his angular frame.
Later, he won’t remember how long they paint together before a drip of paint lands on Sherlock’s face (much too enthusiastic with his pigment application, strangely giddy about the whole process).
John will remember that he is the first to laugh, though, Sherlock’s indignant huff calling attention to the smear of fresh white on his cheek. John expects some sort of retort, or a dab of paint to be flung at him in retaliation - but no, Sherlock doesn’t even join in the laughter.
Instead, he just stands there, his affronted look becoming something else altogether, his eyes on John’s, until John wonders how he had never seen this before, never noticed before, how happy Sherlock can look, and also how lonely.
His friend looks resigned even as his cheeks tint with mirth, as if he is making the decision to take what happiness he can in this moment.
John will remember making the same decision.
He will remember reaching out, saying: “Hey,” will remember reaching out and thumbing the paint from Sherlock’s high cheekbone, will remember saying: “Sherlock -“
John kisses Sherlock, and later he will remember the feel of him, his surprise becoming pliancy, eagerness cut with caution, and that, that alone could be the end of John, of his self-denial, his confusion, because Sherlock’s hesitant hands come up, as if wary of accepting a gift lest it be taken away, to feather over John’s shoulders lightly, to trace his shoulder blades, to brush the nape of his neck, and those touches shouldn’t ache so -
John will never forget the taste of him, the honeyed tea and breath of him. John revels in Sherlock’s lips parting, his tongue sneaking forward for a taste, coming back when John does not recoil or retreat.
John will never forget the smell of the wet paint, because brains are funny like that, memories are funny like that, and that chalky, damp smell will probably forever bring a bit of a smile to John’s mouth, and he hopes it does, hopes this moment is tattooed upon his brain, indelible, because in this moment, John breathes deep, folds his arms around Sherlock, pulls him close, and does what he suspects should have been - could have been - done a long time ago.
Time is funny like that, too.
John will later wonder how much they wasted, drips and drabs of days spent too far from one another, will wonder if they could have managed this sooner, if only they hadn’t been waiting for each other, because John knows exactly how long he waited for Sherlock, but he doesn’t know how long Sherlock waited for him, looking back from somewhere far ahead, turning and lingering patiently until John caught up.
Later, John will half-remember smears of time and presses of fingers, snatches of breath and long moments of eyes, those eyes, looking at him, a question in that gaze bruising John, a question he would erase, because Sherlock shouldn’t have to ask, shouldn’t have to wonder, and it’s all John’s fault that this brilliant man doesn’t understand why John is kissing him, that he loves him.
Self-discovery is like memories and time, then: odd and coming in fits and starts, relative.
John will feel chagrin after, at the lateness of his realization, but also resolve, because he decides right then and there to spend the rest of his days amending his oversight, fixing the question in Sherlock’s hands and mouth and eyes, and the drip of paint on John’s brave thumb is the best possible start, his mouth on Sherlock’s the next step, his hands fisting in Sherlock’s shirt the logical continuation. John colours Sherlock with kisses, brushes the answer into his skin with palms and lips, patterns the air with words mumbled and murmured, words just for Sherlock’s ears, words that might not make sense now, might not be understood, but they will and they will be, because John will repeat them, will coat Sherlock in them and their sentiment until they do and are.
And later, when time and John have proven and painted this as something that lasts, that isn’t a fluke or some transient joy, John will mull over what he remembers and the sensual blurs of what he doesn’t, lying beside Sherlock, who will more than likely remember everything, and he’ll turn on his side and say: “Hey,” and reach out to touch Sherlock’s cheek, and say: “Sherlock –”
And Sherlock will open his eyes and stare into John’s, and interrupt John’s words: “I know.”
And because sentiment is funny like that, John will say them all the same.